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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676406">The Scorpion &amp; the Nightmare</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jl0281/pseuds/jl0281'>jl0281</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Original Work</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ancient Egyptian Deities, Asian Character(s), Black Character(s), Character(s) of Color, Cultural References, Demons, Exorcisms, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family, Forbidden Love, Gay Character, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, Genderfluid Character, Ghosts, Gods, Jealousy, LGBTQ Character of Color, LGBTQ Themes, Legends, Love, Love Triangles, M/M, Magic, Mentors, Mystery, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Protective Siblings, Romance, School, Stalking??, Trans Character, True Love, Urban Fantasy, Very Overpowered Lover, Warlocks, overpowered lead</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:54:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>107,184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676406</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jl0281/pseuds/jl0281</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-three year old Cleo Sullivan is just trying to make ends meet so his brother and sisters can live decent lives. But when a vicious attack from an undead soul disrupts his mundane life in Boston, Cleo is faced with a world of limitless possibility and deadly horrors. He has two options: learn to control his extraordinary magic at the Andronicus Institute, or lay himself and his family vulnerable to the threat of a lurking demonic entity. </p><p>The choice is pretty obvious. But not simple. Because now, Cleo's got to deal with the brutally competitive apprentices of the Institute, the horrors that walk around with human faces and human minds, the secrets of his legendary mentor, and--ah, the cherry on top--the obsession of an ancient god.  </p><p>(M/M* Urban Fantasy)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello hello! Welcome to the comic-in-disguise that is The Scorpion &amp; the Nightmare!</p><p>If y'all have read my work before, you might find this one a bit different from the others. Still got some dark streaks plus a good dose of convoluted mystery and angsty dramatic romance, but it's a ~relatively~ lighter work I wrote just for fun. This is literally me indulging my 14 year old self but with adult themes. 'Scuse any grammar issues (and feel free to point them out).</p><p>One quick thing to note--this work is technically M/M but is not your traditional M/M. To avoid spoilers, all I will say is that certain magical conditions will play with gender/sex.</p><p>*Also, for this chapter, please note a trigger warning for attempted sexual assault. Way to start light, right?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>
    <b><em>Thursday</em> |<em> Apr. 15, 2021</em></b>
  </span>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>THURSDAY NIGHTS AT the Liquid Emporium were always saturated with aspiring socialites and gold-eyed bankers. A fellow in sleek metropolitan Boston came to this posh bar in the downtown district to wind down from a long day of work, maybe pick up a pretty face or two. Cleo, who had been working here for five months as of last Monday, could name half the crowd. Sitting with the three giggling ladies was Pranay, the handsome analyst down at State Street. Just now shrugging off her spring jacket was Morgan, the pixie-cut consultant over at Baine. Then there was Alicia, the—well, Cleo wasn’t sure what she did anymore; she’d cried over three palomas last week about quitting her job at some insurance company. And, of course, Seth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ever mysterious, ever present </span>
  <em>
    <span>Seth</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Here he was again, sitting in his usual stool across the bar counter, stirring the usual milked brandy, reading the usual outdated novel. He appeared maybe twice a week, sometimes more, and seemed liked he ought to be at a coffee bar rather than a liquor bar. This was not to imply he looked inappropriately young or inadequately intoxicating: he was a rather mature and absurdly handsome fellow, perhaps ethnically Middle-Eastern or African, with a pair of dreamy dark eyes that allured a fair share of inquisitive ladies and a handful of men. But he closed them all off with a polite smile and curt responses, and always seemed to prefer his book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except, occasionally, when Cleo wasn’t looking. He could feel those eyes on him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At this precise moment, they may well be drilling holes into the back of his head. Cleo was mixing yet another paloma for Alicia, who was talking at length about how her life was becoming a sludge of shit. Apparently after quitting her job, she’d found her boyfriend cheating on her with a man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then, and then, this bastard had the </span>
  <em>
    <span>nerve </span>
  </em>
  <span>to ask for his nanobond pans back! Like, hell, no—</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>cooked all your damn dinners in that shit! It’s mine!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Absolutely,” said Cleo sympathetically. He had no idea what nanobond pans were. “Though, you know, if he does bother you again about those pans, you could always return them with some personal decor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like, ‘Eat this, you chipolata-sized dick.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Chipolata?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thin sausage. Very thin. Small and unsatisfying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alicia snorted out a bit of her drink laughing. She slapped the table, halfway drunk again, and wagged a finger at Cleo. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>know why I come here. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>using that. Oh, man, your boss better have a raise in the works!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo laughed too and thanked her, refilling her drink before he went to address another customer, with whom he chatted for a brief minute. He liked that he had time to talk here, which he was not afforded the luxury of at his former bustling pub. The Liquid Emporium was still a coveted spot, but its prices were the gatekeeper. You came here when you were young enough to like the posh, mid-alley appeal, and wealthy enough to own at least a half-closet of suits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After his next customer, he had a brief reprieve. His coworkers Kendra and Logan covered the new wave of table orders. He prepped a new brandy to mix and brought it over to the quiet Seth, who was staring at his book again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth had been at the bar for over twenty minutes now. Cleo, occupied at the other end, hadn’t said hi yet. Some nights he went without saying hi to the guy at all, just to see if it would spur him to come talk. It did not. After four months of those not-so-surreptitious stares—yes, this man had been visiting bar weekly or so for the past four months—Cleo had just about enough of the mystery. He was tired of thinking about those indelible chocolate eyes off his work hours. He was at a point where he just needed to know if this was going to be a thing or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the journey this time?” he said, nodding at the book. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth brandished the cover. “Paris, nineteenth century.”</span>
</p><p><span>It was </span><em><span>The</span></em> <em><span>Count of Monte Cristo</span></em><span>. Cleo had read that one in his senior year of high school. He was just about to say so when he looked back up and caught Seth’s eyes. For a guy who only stared when Cleo was not looking, Seth had quite the steady gaze. Steady voice too. He did not seem like he had a shred of shyness. </span></p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled and said, “A dense read for a setting like this, isn’t it? How far have you gotten tonight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A chapter, more or less.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s impressive. Even with the distractions?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t find myself particularly distracted.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Cleo poured a fresh glass of drink to replace the one that Seth had finished. He leaned over the counter to place it before the man, close enough to speak below the chatter, close enough to see the man’s pupils enlarge. His own pulse picked up. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>just ask, you know. I’d say yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, Seth smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the sort of polite smile he gave to other inquisitive customers. Not the happy, flattered sort either. But an amused kind of smile that instantly loosened the coy curve on Cleo’s lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That isn’t why I’m here,” said Seth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pulled away and dropped a hand to his hip. He tried not to be slighted. It was hard. “Then why </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like your drinks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh.” Cleo plucked his empty glass away with some affront. “Well, enjoy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went back to serving the other customers, turning up the charm two-fold in what might have been a vindictive streak. He did not make the first move often—as one might infer from waiting four months for Seth to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>other than stare. Actually, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>never </span>
  </em>
  <span>made the first move. But between what he had interpreted as overt attraction and his own helpless intrigue, he’d fallen for the trap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Less than thirty seconds later, when he looked back at the stool, Seth was gone. At least he left a generous tip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A half-hour before midnight, Cleo clocked out of his shift. The Liquid Emporium would keep serving until 2 A.M., but Cleo had a daily early morning at Hayward Construction. He rode the late night subway back to his condo apartment in the inner city, debating whether or not to call absent for tomorrow. He would miss the afternoon anyway for an interview, but each hour skipped was eighteen dollars skimmed...Ah, he would just bring a change of clothes and slot enough buffer time for a shower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>12:15, or about, he reached his apartment in the crowded neighborhood. The living room lights were still on. He was quiet about the door anyway, because at least little Shuri would be asleep. In the entry hall, two dozen pairs of shoes—a third of them cheap slippers—were sprawled between the four-stack rack and the floor. Cleo picked up two large men’s sneakers lying in the middle of the hall and put them in their proper place. He slipped his own smaller shoes on the rack below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearby, paper flipped sharply and a girl heaved a sigh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked around the hall bend and peered into the adjacent living-slash-dining room. It was an eccentrically furnished place—everything they had was second-hand, picked up from garage sales and sidewalks and giveaways—but that made it feel quite more homely than the prim houses with perfect color schemes and polished everythings. And the scene he walked in on was as usual as the welcome mat: Dani, his eighteen-year-old adopted sister, sitting at the old dinner table, poring over her freshman college textbooks. It was mid April, quickly approaching finals season.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the moment, she appeared frustrated. A couple strands from her triple side braids had come loose from her fussing, and her mascara had tiredly melted into her cinnamon skin. Dani, whose full name was Daniela, was a mixed girl who had faced her share of bullying for being an adoptee, for being gangly, for being too pale or too dark. But she didn’t mind the haters and now attended one of the most prestigious colleges in the world—a proper underdog tale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes, though, she still acted like a child. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck this. Fuck this, and fuck this! What the fuck is this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It looks like a textbook.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glared up at him, eyes maybe a little bloodshot. Cleo smiled in good humor and ambled over to the table while she elaborated. “It’s Kalden. Discrete fucking math. Still stirring up what </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be simple topics like the self-obsessed prick he is. I’ve been working on this for hours and I’ve barely made it through the first problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some progress is better than no progress? Just remember that if you’re struggling, so is everyone else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, like those rich white boys whose dads drop five thousand a month on fancy tutors? Fuck, I bet they’re just breezing through this shit…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo held back a wince. She was right, but he hated the idea that his sister would come out lesser in this so-called meritocracy because of money. Dropping his keys on the table, he went to tug at her hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow! What’s that for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your hair’s greasy. Go take a shower.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She scowled at him. “Asshole. Your hair’s—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fluffed his short black locks. “Hm? What was that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever. I’ll shower later. I have to finish—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your brain will work better after a break and a proper rest, but I’m guessing this assignment’s due tomorrow? Go shower and I’ll take a look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sighed and pushed out the chair, then made for the narrow stairs. In her absence, Cleo took her seat and flipped through the pages of her assignment and textbook. Discrete mathematics—exterior calculus. He’d brushed upon the topic before. He took liberties with his sister’s pen and notebook, and starting scrawling on a spare sheet. Lost track of time, engrossed in the comfort of an intellectual challenge, until his sister reappeared at his side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was staring at his scrawls of equations when he looked up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, you figured it out?” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough to be of some help,” he said. He slid to the adjacent seat. “Sit. I’ll walk you through.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were at the table for another half-hour, talking through the concepts first, then working through the problem sets. At one in the morning, Cleo stifled a yawn. Dani noticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should go to bed,” she said. “You have work in the morning, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waved a hand. “I wasn’t planning on taking the shift anyway. I’ve that interview in the afternoon. Might as well sleep in, right? Anyway, this is more important…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani was quiet. Instead of returning to her work, her gaze stuck on the sleeve of her crimson college hoodie. Though she was just a freshman, the hems were years worn. It had belonged to Cleo. The make was unisex, though, and he thought it fit his sister far better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When I graduate,” she said quietly, “I swear, I’ll land one of those six figure jobs. I’ll make the buck and you can take it easy, Cleo. You can go back to school if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“School? Gross. And I’m too young to retire.” When his sister didn’t look up, he tapped his chin lightly. “Well, I guess dropping the construction work doesn’t sound so bad. Full time barkeeper? Ah, think of all the sexy men I could pick up…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani snorted. “And just how many men </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>you picked up this year? I don’t remember any visitors or late nights away.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo tsked. “I’m saving myself. Haven’t found the right guy yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about the book nerd at the bar? He made a move yet?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. “I don’t want to talk about him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? You love lit geeks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>True. His first crush was his tenth grade English teacher, who...gave him his lowest high school grade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but I don’t think they love me. He turned me down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani’s mouth dropped open. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>insane</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Is he </span>
  <em>
    <span>blind</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo laughed and threw an arm around his sister. “If Daniela Sullivan thinks so, he must be. I love you, you know that? Anyway,” he tapped the assignment paper. “Problem set. Let’s finish.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They worked for another hour before Dani insisted that she had the hang of it and pushed him to bed. He washed up and tiptoed to his shared room, where his brother Jules was already asleep, that colossus of a senior high school boy snoring like a lion on the window-side bed. He was the same age as Dani, adopted from the same orphanage, but not so quick to advance through the grades. Didn’t mean he was any less capable—just less studious, more rebellious. A little stuck in his teenage years too, ignoring Cleo in the morning with a moody look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After his brother left, and before his sisters had woken, Cleo took the car to work at Hayward Construction. He felt the sleep deprivation and hoped it would not affect his interview, but eighteen dollars an hour was a hefty sum of money for a family of his conditions. He managed to make it to noon, after which he excused himself to prepare for his interview. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The interview was with a small but established corporate office downtown searching for an executive assistant. These days, most companies hired college grads, and Cleo was a college dropout—he didn’t think he had much of a chance, but he’d tossed in his application anyway because the salary was double what he was making at Hayward and the job listing requirements didn’t say he needed a bachelor’s. Something on his resume must have done the work. The eighteen month academic ‘experience’ at an brand name university? The cover letter, perhaps? He thought he was a good writer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He showed up ten minutes before time in his lone suit, the one he’d bought for his only college summer internship. He looked pretty good in the elevator reflection, if he did say so himself. But that didn’t stop him from feeling starkly out of place on the fourteenth floor, among polish and finery and people who made three times his worth in the blink of an eye. He’d been told by the front desk to wait in the common room here, and as he did, he felt his nerves drive up his pulse. Interviewing for barwork and construction work had felt intuitive. Interviewing with a corporate executive... </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt out of his depth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>1:15, the time of his interview, came and went. It was nearly 1:30 when his interviewer finally arrived—a chief executive of the office himself, Gregory Breuston. Breuston appeared to be in his mid fifties, well-kept, clearly affluent. His peppering, curled hair was sleeked back on a handsome, blue-eyed face, his fashion sense was suited for the industry of high-rising men: sleek blue suit, designer tie, designer watch, polished shoes as new as the morning. But the moment he stopped and smiled with the air of someone who owned a golden toilet, Cleo had a feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy working here if he was offered the job. Ah, well. Money.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo, already standing, offered his hand and a generous smile. Breuston looked at it before taking his hand and shaking it slowly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Breuston.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, call me Greg. Come this way and I’ll show you to my office.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked to his office. Not many people in this area of the building. The room they arrived at—windowside, with a gracious view of the city beyond—seemed quite lonely. A massive desk with a leather seat graced the center of the room. In a private alcove, two couches sat facing a black coffee table. Breuston gestured for Cleo to sit in one couch and himself took the other. A folder with his resume already waited on the table, and for the first few minutes, they discussed what was on it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then the businessman predictably wanted to know why he was interested in the job. Cleo was mostly honest. He talked about his family, the opportunity for mobility. Supporting his siblings through school. Being a good role model. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A good role model, huh?” Breuston gazed at the resume on his lap and shook his head with a tsk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, that was never a good sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve gotta say, Cleo, if I had children I’d want a better model for them than a college drop-out and a barkeep. Now, to be the assistant of a CEO like myself...that’s gonna open some nice doors for you, you know? Well, of course you do. That’s why you’re here. But compared to the other applicants I have, </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>here,” he tapped the resume, “is looking pretty cheap.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t expect that forthright beration. And though his first reaction was shock and offense, both were quickly making way to a new, icy apprehension. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why not interview them instead?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breuston set his resume on the couch and crossed his legs. “Because when I want a clever, experienced office worker, I’ve got my secretaries. But I’m looking for a </span>
  <em>
    <span>personal </span>
  </em>
  <span>assistant, you know. Someone, yeah, to help out with the work, but also to take the stress off a long day. Whether that’s by fixing me a nice drink, or giving me a back rub, or, you know, whatever else comes up. Like I said,” he gestured to the resume, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is looking pretty cheap. But that?” He pointed at Cleo’s face. “All this?” He gestured up and down Cleo’s body. “That’s looking like a million bucks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did not know how to react. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Disbelief. Disgust. Humiliation crawling up to his cheeks at the way he was talked about and looked at. He hadn’t felt anything like this before, because the drunken and improper guests at the bar, the whistlers in the subway, the classmates smashed at freshman parties—at least he felt in control then. Now? Now a man who saw him as an ant, a man he had been trying to impress, was asking him to—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clenched his hands into fists and stood up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, but no thanks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made for the exit. Breuston caught his wrist as he passed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, slow down. Your family’s comfort really means that little to you? This is your chance to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let go of me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a proud young man. I get it. I get it, Cleo. You’ve just got to cool down and give it some—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let go of me. I can file charges against you for harassment, assault, and battery.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grip on his wrist tightened. Cleo hissed in pain. Breuston stood upright, his gaze towering down at Cleo’s cold glare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me amend that for you,” said Breuston. “You can </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to file charges. But you won’t get further than your paperwork, if you’ve even got the skill for that. Here’s the deal, Cleo. I’m a nice guy. I know this offer might be the sort of thing you need to think about, so I don’t need a decision today. Okay? You can go home to your kid siblings and </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> about getting them nicer Christmas gifts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate the consideration,” said Cleo through his teeth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But,” said Breuston, “if you end up turning me down, you’ll have wasted my time with this interview. Men like me don’t do wasted time. So I’ll be needing a little payment before you go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fright sped Cleo’s pulse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This couldn’t be happening to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breuston shoved him backward and reached for the door. Locked it. Cleo eyed the mechanic above the knob—quick twist, but still a twist. Could he make a run for it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can choose, sweetheart,” said the man. “Brownie points if you get on your knees and open your mouth. But if you’re going to make this hard for me, I’m not risking a bite from your teeth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a sick pervert.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breuston sighed. “No brownie points, then.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man started forward. Cleo backpedalled to the desk. He grabbed the globe paperweight behind him and threw it at Breuston’s head. He had shit aim at the moment—he was shaking—but it was enough of a start to distract the man. He bolted for the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Arms caught him before he reached. He screamed a curse. Screamed for help. There was a blur of noise, a disgusting voice telling him to keep going, telling him how much it loved putting down a hot fight—a blur of motion and touch, shoving him onto the floor and fumbling through his clothes. The scent of rich cologne and coffee filled his lungs. His head ached from the fury and the fear and the humiliation—but a sliver of it kept clarity above the rest. Breuston only had so many hands, and Cleo waited until they were occupied with his belt and supporting their own weight. He grabbed for the pen in his inner suit pocket and stabbed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not the man’s throat, though it was vulnerable, though Cleo was tempted. He could think ahead enough to realize his family would not withstand the burden of a murder accusation, even if it was in self-defense. He stabbed the man’s hand, the one planted on the ground to prop the man upright. Breuston screamed in pain. Cleo shoved him off while he was off balance. Curses followed him as he ran for the door. Somehow, he made it out before he was chased down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept running. People in the busier part of the floor stared after him, his messy hair and unbuttoned shirt, half-done belt, frightened eyes. He managed to reach the stairwell and hurriedly fixed himself as he ran down the stairs. Breuston did not chase. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t stop running until he was in his car, and then he didn’t stop driving until he was well beyond the district. Then, on the curb of a shadowed neighborhood road, he buried his face in his hands and cried. He cried until he was sure he could compose himself. Pretend it never happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t tell his siblings. Just said the interview didn’t go well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went to his shift at the Liquid Emporium as usual. Smile and chatted with the customers. Seth was absent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did not get much sleep beside Jules’s snores that night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, in the morning, the local news appeared on his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gregory Breuston, CEO of Breuston &amp; Wickers, was found dead in his apartment.      </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b><em>Saturday</em> |<em> Apr. 17, 2021</em></b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>That same Saturday afternoon, the police asked Cleo down to their station for an interview.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A couple witnesses saw you running through the halls half-naked,” said the round, bald detective on duty. His shirt was clearly one size too small, with the black buttons looking like they might burst. They had been going at this for a good fifteen minutes, covering preliminaries, and Cleo got the sense that he was not in friendly hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was not half-naked,” he said flatly. “I had been </span>
  <em>
    <span>partially </span>
  </em>
  <span>undressed by a man trying to rape me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you admit he was trying to rape you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo almost rolled his eyes. “I never denied it in the first place. He invited me to interview, and I thought he was a decent businessman. He propositioned me, and when I tried to leave, he attacked me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cop eyed Cleo up and down, not in the same way Breuston had, thank god, but it certainly wasn’t pleasant either. With a suspicious eyebrow, the cop said, “You’re a pretty small fellow, no offense. And Gregory Breuston was a pretty big guy. You sure it was just an attempt? He didn’t manage to, you know, finish it off with you before you ran away?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo clenched his teeth. It was obvious what the cop was doing—fishing for motive. At the moment, Cleo might be the most likely suspect, and he’d be more likely a suspect if he had suffered the worst at Breuston’s hands. The tactic was sick though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Your witnesses didn’t tell you about the bandages?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What bandages?” said the cop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I stabbed his fucking hand while he was fumbling with my belt. Check his damn corpse.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cop narrowed his eyes. “There is no corpse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cop peered at him, as if searching for a hint of lie. “There’s no corpse,” he repeated. “Well, there’s a skeleton. But the rest of the body was just splattered ‘cross the bedroom. Splat, like a tomato. You know, the kind of wonky shit that’d take a really pissed-off engineer to accomplish. Hey, wasn’t that your major before you dropped out of college? Some chemically, science-y thing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo narrowed his eyes. “How did you access my transcript? That’s private record.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cop shrugged. “I’m the one asking questions, boy. So yeah, you know a thing or two about exploding bodies, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused. This was precisely what he was trying to avoid when he went for Breuston’s hand over his throat. He did not feel pity for the pervert. But horror, yes. He’d always had a vivid imagination, and even by the cop’s bare descriptions, he felt as if he was standing in the businessman’s bedroom. A bloodied, contorted skeleton lying on some silken designer sheets. Crimson that had not yet dried dying the fabric, painting the walls. Clumps of gore sticking to furniture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone had a sick mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re looking at the wrong person,” said Cleo. “Check my alibi. And until then, get me an attorney if you want to keep asking me stupid questions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cop scoffed. “The guilty ones always call your questions stupid. Fine, boy. We’ll get you back here another day. But ‘til then, don’t you dare go skipping town.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t dream of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten minutes later, he was back in the car with his siblings. The police had shown up at his door while he was having lunch with his sisters, and once Jules heard the commotion, he’d checked in as well. Cleo hadn’t wanted to trouble them with this, but Dani had insisted on coming along, and Jules was in the backseat of their only car without a single word, and then, of course, nine-year-old Shuri couldn’t be left home alone. The station wasn’t a fun place to be, so for the past hour, the three had been waiting in their old sedan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d it go?” said Dani when he slipped into the driver’s seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About as expected,” said Cleo. He turned over his shoulder to look at his youngest sister, who had pressed up behind his seat and was pulling at the back of his spring jacket. Shuri was a Japanese adoptee, which made her delicate features more like Cleo’s than any of his other siblings. But they were only of the same general ethnicity, not of the same blood. “Hey. Whatcha doing?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri slid in between the front car seats and grabbed his cheeks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Checking if you’re hurt,” she said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes widened as she spotted something on his collar. Cleo blanched with realization even before his sister shrieked. “You’re hurt! There’s a—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clapped his hand over his collar. Jules had already straightened in the backseat and Dani was staring in alarm. He hoped they hadn’t seen anything. “That’s not from today,” he said quickly. “Just a careless scratch. Really.” He tugged his jacket over the bite mark and ruffled Shuri’s hair. “God, kiddo, you’ve got such sharp eyes. I’ll have to watch where I hide the snacks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri frowned. Cleo instructed her to buckle up and pulled out of the station lot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They don’t suspect you, do they?” said Dani. “Like, you won’t have to come back here again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’d like to suspect me,” said Cleo. “They want to close the case as quickly as possible. You know, understandable. But I wouldn’t worry about. I’m sure they’ll start picking up on proper leads soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But why? Why would they even think you’d do it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shrugged. “It’s early in the case. The guy died a few hours after meeting me. The cops are just making a clean sweep. Like I said, nothing to overthink.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” said Dani. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hate </span>
  </em>
  <span>those bluetops.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not an uncommon sentiment. Their adoptive mother was a generous woman, not a wealthy one; the lot they’d grown up around were not friendly with the police. Too many misplaced accusations. Too many wrong convictions and pointless bullets. Well, Cleo had met his share of good police. A few had saved his life before. But the ones chasing after the promotion and starry record at any cost, like the detective he’d just met? Those could go to hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, no more bluetops,” said Cleo. “How about Blue Ribs?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh! Oh!” said Shuri. “Can we get the strawberry cheesecake?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We just had lunch,” said Dani.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is for dinner, obviously. Jules, you in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. Cleo glanced at the rearview mirror, where his brother turned away and set his glum, dark eyes on the road. “Yeah, whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo refrained from sighing. He wanted to see all his siblings happy, but it had been many years since Jules had been as carefree as he once was. The change began the year before their mother’s unexpected death. Late stage ovarian cancer. Then after their mother passed in Cleo’s sophomore year of college, or what should have been his sophomore year, Jules became even more withdrawn. Only Dani, who had been at Jules’s side since they were toddler orphans at the foster house, reached the boy sometimes. Were it not for that and her reassurance that Jules was working through his issues, Cleo would be beside himself with worry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still worried. But even more so, he was sad. Jules didn’t open up to him. They shared the same room, and Cleo had watched him grow up, and they’d learned tennis and chess and how to cook a birthday cake together, but Jules no longer confided in him. He barely talked to Cleo. And Cleo didn’t know why. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he wasn’t exactly, physically, normal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he wasn’t by their mother’s side often enough in her last months?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he wasn’t the perfect brother anymore, the prodigy with countless friends and a prestigious future? Because he was a bartender and a construction worker? Or because he liked men?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wished he could ask. But he never seemed to be able to find the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They returned to the apartment, changed, and went out to Blue Ribs. It was an affordable diner in the area, with comforting food and a friendly atmosphere. They didn’t come here often, but the owners still knew them by name. Dani had babysat their daughter before, and so with every visit, they were treated to an extra platter of ribs. Shuri was delighted, as usual, over the cheesecake. Dani was just pleased to have the family out together. Cleo forgot about his two terrible interviews.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at home, Cleo threw on a movie with Shuri while Dani continued her studies and Jules vanished for a run. Saturdays were his one off-day, because of the surplus of worker availability at the Emporium. Tomorrow he had a long shift at the bar. So he enjoyed his Saturday as mindlessly as possible, except occasionally to help Dani with a few questions. Eleven o’clock, he prepped for bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules was already lying on his bed, scrolling through his phone with a pair of earbuds. Cleo could hear hints of the acoustic music. Jules looked like the type of guy who would listen to rap or hiphop or something electric and modern—he was the epitome of the twenty-first century college boy, even if he wasn’t a college boy yet: broody, obsessed with fitness, and a little (a lot) too cool for school. But most of his playlist, at least when he was in his bedroom and as far as Cleo could hear, seemed quite mellow. Emotional. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried not to disturb Jules as he went about changing. When he was done changing, he asked softly, “Do you need the lights on?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules looked up cursorily. “No,” he said, and then began to turn away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo reached to pull the lamp switch between their beds. Just as he did, Jules’s eyes snapped back, as if realizing something. The lights went out. Jules swung out of bed and tugged the switch. The lights went back on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules stared at Cleo, his earbuds drooping out of place. Specifically, he stared at Cleo’s collar, which Cleo had deftly covered with the sheets before Jules had reached the lights. It was obvious he had seen anyway. Cleo cursed himself for being careless—it was all too easy to forget the marks on his body after trying so hard to shut the memory out of his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo cleared his throat. Jules didn’t seem to know what to say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, his brother muttered, “Are you seeing someone?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a one-time thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules looked dubious. “When?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, during work.” Cleo cleared his throat again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules narrowed his eyes. Cleo panicked. Jules was exceptionally clever, and he did not want his brother to connect the dots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a </span>
  <em>
    <span>little </span>
  </em>
  <span>awkward to talk with your brother about your sex life. But, um, sure, I’m glad for any chance to chat? So if you want to know the details, he was a very handsome guy who works as an English teacher in the downtown area. Came by the Emporium a couple times. Liked my brandy. Pretty aggressive too, but in the good way, mostly. Uh….” Cleo cleared his throat again. “You’re not going to stop me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules kept staring at him for a moment longer. Then, at last, he breathed through his nose and dropped back onto his bed, facing the other side. “Whatever. It’s your business.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Good night, Jules.” He paused. “Thanks for asking about me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tugged the lights out again and tucked into bed. He was accustomed to sleeping with his brother’s snores, and when he heard only silence, he too laid awake. Some half-hour later, or longer, Jules walked out of the room and didn’t come back for a while. Cleo closed his eyes, and after going sleepless the night before, was eventually dragged into a drift of exhaustion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A scream woke him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bolted upright, heart ramming as he registered the bone chilling voice. He lost a second to shock, thinking it was a nightmare, but then the cool air of the room hit him. “Dani,” he whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran out of the room. There was a thump. Another cry. “Dani?!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the second floor corridor, Shuri stumbled out of her room in her pajamas. She shared it with Dani, but Dani’s voice had come from downstairs. Cleo grabbed his little sister’s arm and pulled her back inside the room, and while he was there, quickly fetched the scissors on the desk. He spotted the digital clock on the wall, barely registered the </span>
  <em>
    <span>12:19 AM</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He turned to Shuri and said, “Stay here. Call the police. I’ll be right back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rushed for the stairs before seeing if she would listen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as his foot touched the first step down, the temperature dropped. A horrific sensation, like a vaporous ocean, swarmed his body, lathering him in instinctive fear. The lights were flickering. Some labored, ragged breath heaved, a sound that filled the air. Dani’s begging whimpers seemed smothered by the quieter sound.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dove into the dark atmosphere and searched for his sister. His eyes landed first on a body crumpled against the back of the couch. Jules. His hair shadowed his closed eyes. Blood leaked from his lips. Cleo’s heart froze as an awful dread numbed his limbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gaze tore to his sister, who was on her knees, cornered against the wall. Tears streaked down her cheeks. Between the flickers of the lights, Cleo saw raw crimson on her arm. Looming over her was—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A human silhouette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow of thick black fumes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unearthly smoke billowing around a skeleton. A nearly fresh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>bloody </span>
  </em>
  <span>skeleton, with clumps of gore upon the bones. Demonic. Impossible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity turned toward Cleo. Its jaw opened wide, and black wisps of breath escaped from the opening of its bloody teeth. The density of the air thickened. A chain of shattering sounds rang through the room—then the lights went dead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next thing Cleo knew, he was sprawled on the dinner table. Pain exploded where his head and back collided with the wood. Cold soaked over him, and those horrid breaths heaved over his face. The skull was hovering over him, its limbs pressing him down. Those wisps ghosted over his skin. Suddenly, the smell of rich cologne and coffee and putrid sweat filled Cleo’s lungs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Breuston?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There was no corpse. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Impossible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was all impossible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it felt so </span>
  <em>
    <span>real. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Terrified, he thrust the scissors from his sisters’s room toward the demonic skull. That skeleton hand grabbed his wrist, its touch a searing icy cold. He screamed. Another hand grasped his jaw. He could feel the fingertips freezing his flesh, breaking through the surface. If this was not a dream, he would die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another scream rang out. Dani. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo: “</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity released Cleo and swung at his back. A stool broke apart midair. Dani stumbled back from the impact, clutching her wounded arm. She looked at Cleo. “Cleo, run!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could move, the entity lunged at his sister and clutched her throat, shoved her against the wall. Cleo grabbed the kitchen knife on the counter and leapt forward with a roar—watched as the entity turned its head, and without touching him, threw him in the opposite direction. He landed next to his brother, the impact loosening his grip on the kitchen knife. As he hit Jules’s legs, he saw his brother stir faintly. His heart hammered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had to save them. He had to protect his family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to the entity, who had released his coughing sister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me,” he whispered. He raised his voice. “You want me, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity opened its mouth. More of its dark, vaporous breath filled the air. Cleo pushed upright and stepped slowly into the entrance hall, speaking until his back hit the front door. “You’re Gregory Breuston. Aren’t you? You want to finish what you started. Is that it?” Behind his back, his shaking hands fumbled for the door lock. He masked the </span>
  <em>
    <span>click</span>
  </em>
  <span> with a poor laugh. “You’re missing some assets for that though, aren’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity lunged. Cleo shoved the door open and stumbled onto the street. The entity followed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something hit his back. Not a hand. A force. His knees buckled from the shock of it, and his body skid into the street. His head spun. He struggled to orient himself, to not die so quickly—but just as he pushed onto his hands and knees, an overwhelming wave of nausea and excruciating heat surged up his body. He vomited up blood. He clutched his stomach and felt his clothes ripped and soaked, his flesh raw and dripping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His vision swam. Below, the asphalt of the street iced over. It was fucking springtime. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Panic gripped him. Logic tried to rein him back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t real. This couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>be </span>
  </em>
  <span>real. He could not die, not now, not here, not like this. He could not leave his family alone to grieve over his mutilated body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. This wasn’t real. This must be a dream. And his dreams—his dreams had never controlled him. As long as he was conscious of his own dreaming, he dictated what happened next. Always. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up at the approaching shadow. His vision blurred. He blinked. The entity stopped moving—tilted its head, as if confused. Cleo didn’t understand, but he blinked a few more times, and his vision began to clear. The cold in the air faded. The pain in his abdomen faded. He pushed upright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity started moving again. It was going to lunge. Cleo could see it coming in the spreading arms, the posture shift. He closed his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he imagined its bloody bones erupting into flames. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Imagined the licks of fire, the wisps eating the black fumes, the skeleton darkening, crumbling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Imagined it as vivid as life itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heat washed over him. Light reddened his eyelids. He opened his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity howled, consumed by flames. Cleo stumbled back, aghast that it had worked. So it was a dream—but how could a dream be </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>vivid? He was scared that he couldn’t wake from it. No matter—be rid of the entity first. He encouraged the fire to burn hotter—and then saw his sister stumble out from the doorway. Her arm was still bleeding, and worry smothered his concentration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fire vanished. The entity shrieked a voiceless gust of air and lunged toward him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo raised his arms to shield himself. But before he was touched, the roar of a motorcycle and a rip of wind tore past him. The entity’s gusting shrieked stopped abruptly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lowered his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the middle of the street, the skeleton stood headless. Its body stumbled forward, hands outstretched. Before Cleo could react, a glint of blades slashed through the night. A blur of motion. A dance of strikes. Seconds later, the skeleton’s severed parts collapsed into a heap, no more fumes, no more threat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to the sound of sheathing knives. There, a few paces in front of a motorcycle, stood a man illuminated by moonlight and streetlight. Not familiar. Just a few years older than Cleo, clean-faced. Skin ghostly fine, his sleeked hair a shock of burgundy. Tattoos of esoteric symbols adorned the ringed fingers that reappeared from his sheathing. The arch of a scaled black dragon crawled out from under his prim shirt collar, along the side of his neck. A hexagonal star sat like a teardrop beneath his dark right eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked Cleo up and down, then smiled a charming smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First rule of exorcism, darling. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>lose your wits.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo didn’t even know where his wits were right now. He gave the man another look, and then ran toward his sister, who had stumbled to the sidewalk. Next door, the neighbors were peering out of their windows.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dani,” he whispered, reaching for her arms. “Dani, are you—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” She was in tears, eyes glued to bloodied soak of his shirt. She pulled the hem up and exposed his skin. It was coated in blood, but otherwise unmarred. She went quiet in disbelief. She palmed over his skin. Then she sobbed and threw her arm around his shoulder. “What the fuck, what the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” he whispered, “it’s okay…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But why was he still speaking?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If this was a dream, why had he not woken up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did it still feel so </span>
  <em>
    <span>crisp</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A dread feeling of disbelief sank into him. Was he awake? Was he going mad? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A whistle broke his thoughts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled away from Dani and looked to his side, where the tatted man stood with his arms crossed. A wry smile curved the man’s lips. “Came down for a trout, hooked myself a shark. Didn’t think I’d find myself a baby </span>
  <em>
    <span>warlock </span>
  </em>
  <span>in these parts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A...what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man cocked an eyebrow. He nodded toward Dani’s arm. “So, are you going to fix that? Or you just going to let the girlfriend suffer?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo ignored the assumption. He stared at his sister’s arm, ripped in three lashes. Dani was doing well to ignore the pain, but she trembled and was paling from the blood loss. It was not fatal, and the paramedics would be on their way if Shuri had dialed 911, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fix it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Heal it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the wound he had felt in his belly? Like the fire he had imagined? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Warlock. Sounded like something out of a fantasy novel. Sounded like magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He caught his sister’s eyes. She looked too real. She was not a dream. And if everything that had happened was more than a hallucination, he did not dare distort her with it. He took her good arm and glanced at the man still watching them, and then started toward the house. “Come on. Let’s get you patched up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man followed them to the bottom of the stairs. Cleo glanced over his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t want to deal with a stranger, even one that had just saved his life. He just wanted to take care of his family. But he couldn’t shake the image of the slashes and the collapsing skeleton. What happened once could always happen again—that was the way of the world. If this was no dream, then this man had answers to questions he needed to ask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you like to come inside? We can talk after I’ve seen to my family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man smiled and started up the steps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Inside, Shuri was crouched over Jules, patting his face with napkins while he winced awake. Cleo didn’t have the space of mind to be upset with his little sister for ignoring his instructions. He was just relieved that Jules didn’t seem hurt too badly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules, having heard their entrance, glanced toward the door. His eyes landed first on Dani’s arm and widened. Then he saw Cleo’s torn, soaked shirt and clawed upright. Panic paled his face as he rushed over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo gently caught his brother’s arm. “I’m fine.” He pulled up his shirt. “See? Help your sister to the couch.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules seemed numb from shock. He was slow to listen, so it was instead Dani who helped him to the couch. Cleo instructed Shuri to fetch the first aid kit and some towels while he filled up bowl of water. He tended to his siblings, asking Jules some questions to make sure his concussion—because he definitely had one—wasn’t anything more serious, while cleaning out Dani’s wound. Their guest was quiet and unobtrusive on the adjacent loveseat, occupied with his phone when he wasn’t watching the siblings. Jules shot him dagger eyes from time to time. No longer after, the sound of sirens and emergency paramedics echoed down the street. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take care of it,” said the tatted man. Cleo nodded, and their guest vanished out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s he?” said Jules.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know, but he helped us. I have some questions for him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So do I,” said Dani.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. “I want you to go rest after this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? No. Not after everything that just happened. That—that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing </span>
  </em>
  <span>wasn’t human. And I heard what you said to it. Cleo, if you know something, don’t keep us in the dark.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed and rubbed his head. “I really don’t know anything. But fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If </span>
  </em>
  <span>you happen to overhear what we talk about, I’ll pretend I don’t know. But I want to speak with him alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani did not look pleased, but neither did she protest. While the guest was outside, Cleo also took the opportunity to change out of his bloodied shirt with a fresh one Shuri had fetched. Less to explain when the cops inevitably came for a check-in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>inevitably, apparently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some minutes later, the emergency vehicles left without so much as glimpse of the 911 caller. The tatted man returned to the loveseat. Whatever this man had told the police had convinced them to waive protocol, which made Cleo quite nervous. Still, they’d be dead, probably, if this man meant any harm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani, Jules, and Shuri went upstairs. Cleo faced his company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry about the wait. Drink?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. I thought you’d never ask. You have juice? Or anything sweet, really.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Soda? Pepsi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’ll do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo went to fetch the glasses. At the refrigerator, he paused to stare at his reflection in the magnetic mirror. There was a trick he’d learned about dreams. Your reflection in a dream will never reflect your true physical self. There would always be distortion. Now, his reflection was perfectly normal. He suppressed a chill and fished out the pepsi soda. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at the couch, he gave a glass to his company and set the other on the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So. I’m playing back what you said earlier. You said you came looking for a trout and you found a shark. Should I expect to be, I don’t know, handcuffed and driven off?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah. That’s a hot image. But no, darling, I don’t think so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man sipped his drink. Cleo asked another question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who are you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man made a refreshed gasp and licked his lips before answering. “Me? I’m Christopher Carrasquillo. Call me Christopher, okay? Not Chris, or I’ll spell you a buzzcut.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. He didn’t have much energy for humor at the moment. “Sure. Christopher. Are you a warlock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Jesus, no. I’m a proper warden of the Institute. One of the good guys.” He scratched his cheek and peered at Cleo. “Actually, I’m thinking I was wrong about you. You seem more like a fresh wake than one of those bastards.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed and touched his forehead. “Could you slow down? Start from the beginning. What’s a warlock? What’s a warden? What the hell was that thing out there, and did I really just </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>a blast of fucking fire into existence?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>was just as surprised as you are. And here I thought you were faking the cluelessness, but I just tried to kill your kid sister fifteen minutes ago and you didn’t bat an eyelash.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher held up his hands in defense and laughed. “Easy, easy. I wouldn’t actually have done it. I just wanted to see if you’d opened up your channel proper or if you were as innocent as you look.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mess with that shit again, and I’ll fucking think up a knife in your throat.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Scary</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But that’s technically impossible—territorial crossing, advanced topic. Anyway, one step at a time, right? Let’s go backwards.” Christopher leaned forward. “Question </span>
  <em>
    <span>numero cuatro. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yes, you did just think fire into existence. You invoked your innate channel with the Tapestry—that’s the dimension of infinite possibility. The human mind is linked with the Tapestry by nature, and a couple of lucky, talented souls are able to tap into their channel and call on their spiritual reserves to make possible the impossible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher paused. Cleo processed his words, suspending his disbelief for the sake of understanding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dimension of </span>
  <em>
    <span>infinite </span>
  </em>
  <span>possibility? That must be an overstatement, if I’m understanding you right...a person who’s got this, this channel and these spiritual reserves, they can just create imaginary realities? Like lucid dreaming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>like lucid dreaming,” said Christopher. “Of course, there are limitations. Like I just mentioned, territorial crossing is one. Then, in general, to bring forth a reality from the imagination, your channel must be steady, your reserves must be sufficient, and your conceptualization must be perfect.” He waved a finger, and a cup holder of gel pens that had spilled on the floor righted and repacked itself. “It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing to move about something that already exists. It’s another thing to bring that which does not exist yet into existence. Something like fire usually takes years of discipline. But prodigies in the field are not unheard of. Can you manage it now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked at his hand. He tried to imagine the fire as he had. Nothing happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See?” said Christopher. “Your channel’s shut down again. It’ll take some proper training to keep it open. Anyway, question </span>
  <em>
    <span>tres. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That thing you saw is what we call a horror. It’s a manifestation of dark consciousness, usually formed by the deceased whose souls are caught in the Tapestral fray before they can pass on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Like a ghost?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sometimes like a ghost. It can get complicated. Long story short, dead unhappy person equals possible haunting, equals unhindered channel and freeform Tapestral manipulation. Sorry, did that get too complicated?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I think I get it. But why him? Now? I’ve gone 23 years without seeing anything like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve probably seen wisps of hauntings here and there. But it’s easy to explain them away and most don’t linger in memory for long. As for what was special about our skeleton friend—I don’t know, did you have any particularly antagonistic relationships?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at the stairwell. “No. I mean—yes, I did. I know </span>
  <em>
    <span>why </span>
  </em>
  <span>he came after me. But I’m not the one who killed him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? You’re going to have to elaborate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His skeleton. I think it was Gregory Breuston. The police found him dead in his apartment yesterday morning, but no flesh, no organs. Just a skeleton with the soft parts splattered ‘like a tomato.’ Maybe he thinks I did it because we had a bad run-in the day before. But I’m not a killer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take your word for it. That’s an interesting situation, though.” Christopher’s gaze drifted. He sipped his soda and hummed in thought. “Most souls take weeks to develop into conscious horrors. Some, months, even years. And you say this Gregory fellow died yesterday? Like a fat tomato…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” said Christopher, “we might have a bad one on our hands. Your questions—wardens—we’re the good guys. We exorcise horrors of all sorts and keep the warlocks in check. Warlocks, they’re wardens gone wrong. Basically, living humans who’ve honed their channel and reserves, but bypass some mortal restrictions by messing with forbidden rituals. That’s all you need to know about them. Anyway, chances are some higher power messed with poor Gregory. Possibly a warlock. Possibly worse. The key takeaway for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>is that we’re going to bring you into the Institute for questioning and keep your family under watch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think we could be targeted? We’re just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A pack of vulnerable children? One of whom has exceptional spiritual reserves. I think it’s very likely you’re being targeted, so be thankful I got to you first. For all we know—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher stopped abruptly. His eyes fell to Cleo’s shirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he muttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s shit?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lift up your shirt.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned, but did as he was told. Dried blood still crusted over his stomach. He suddenly worried his wound would come back. The expression on Christopher’s face certainly indicated it might.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were injured,” said Christopher. “How badly?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo dropped his shirt. “I’m not sure. I was bleeding a lot. The blow came from behind, so I think the impact went straight through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you heal yourself?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I must have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>imagine </span>
  </em>
  <span>your body patching, systematically, all the little details? Crisply, clearly? The same way you imagined that fire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. Christopher’s meaning dawned on him. “Someone else healed me. You think it’s his killer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” said Christopher, his gaze cast on the table, his tone absent its earlier ease. “Fuck.” He inhaled deeply after a moment, then looked up again. “Okay. Here’s the deal. You’re going to get some rest tonight. I’ll keep watch down here. In the morning, you’re coming with me to the Institute to work out a plan. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head, exhausted physically, mentally, and everything in between. He didn’t like the idea of trusting a stranger would could probably off him in the blink of an eye, he didn’t like the sound of an institute or going along blindly to fix up a plan, but he needed his siblings to be safe. And he clearly was not capable of protecting them from this nightmarish reality. If it actually was reality: normal mirror reflection or not, he still had his doubts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure. You need anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher flashed him a smile. “Got a spare blanket?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo tugged out a blanket from the living room closet and tossed it his way. “Anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An introduction would be nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, right. “Cleo Sullivan. Nice to meet you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s all?”</span>
</p><p><span>Cleo hesitated. “Thank you</span> <span>for saving my life. And for staying. I’ll buy you coffee when I’m not overwhelmed and exhausted.” </span></p><p>
  <span>Christopher flashed a pleased grin. “I’ll hold you to that.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for the kudos!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b><em>Sunday </em>|<em> Apr. 18, 2021</em></b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Morning came. Cleo, exhausted, slept until Jules shook him awake. The digital clock read </span>
  <em>
    <span>9:23 AM. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re waiting downstairs,” mumbled his brother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo washed up quickly and dressed, and at half past the hour, he arrived downstairs to see Christopher and an unfamiliar face—a woman, perhaps in her late twenties, early thirties. Her long black hair had a violet sheen aside the TV light, which was playing the morning news on low volume; her painted lips almost matched in color. She wore violet nails too, smokey gold-tinted eyeshadow—a vibrant and elegant contrast to her dark olive skin. Wrapped in a sleek spring dress with a pair of dangling earrings, she looked out of place in this cheap, haphazard apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the moment, she was entertaining Shuri.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Specifically, she was sitting on the loveseat, flicking her fingers like a conductor while a rabbit hopped over the living room coffee table. A rabbit made out of—glass? Water?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. He’d been hoping yesterday was just a bad dream. But he’d just checked his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and he was most definitely awake. Ah, well. At least Shuri looked like she was having fun. And Dani seemed to trust their guests enough to cook breakfast with her backs to them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s this?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher, sitting on the couch with a half-eaten plate of toast, looked up from his phone. The water rabbit—it was water after all—froze into an ice sculpture. The woman met Cleo’s gaze and grinned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the big brother?” she said. “Not very intuitive, to be honest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules was following behind Cleo. Jules </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>a full head taller—when Shuri was grown, Cleo would probably be the runt of the family—but Cleo thought his brother definitely had the younger looking face. Right? Maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Cleo,” said Christopher, standing. “Hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited a friend? This is Amalia Bassett. She’ll be watching over your family while the two of us get things settled at the Institute. They’ll be in good hands, promise.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had reached the bottom of the steps. Dani came and set down a plate of french toast and a glass of milk. Cleo gave her a small smile, noticing the bags under her eyes. He picked up the glass of milk and turned to his youngest sister.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shuri? What do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri grinned. Last night, the girl had been abnormally quiet, like in the aftermath of their mother’s death and their house burning down. Cleo couldn’t see a hint of the peculiar reservation now, and he was not sure whether to be worried or relieved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amalia’s cool. She says she’s going to help me fix Luna and Usagi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was talking about her battered toys. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked over at Jules and Dani. His brother said nothing. His sister nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to this Amalia Bassett. She peering at him with her chin propped on her hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got a good family,” she said. “After everything Christopher’s told me, I’d have trouble believing you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a ‘lock. But how am I supposed to doubt this one?” She nodded at Shuri. “Anyway, kid, I’ll take care of ‘em while you’re gone. Just be back by evening because I’ve got a date.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate it,” said Cleo. He eyed Christopher. “We </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>be back before then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, but we’ve got to leave in the next five minutes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had a quick breakfast, and in the next five minutes, followed Christopher out the door. He offered to drive, but Christopher said it would be too slow. So he hopped on the backseat of Christopher’s motorcycle and hung on for dear life as the man whipped through the streets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later, they ended up in front of a downtown apartment near the public gardens. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your place?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” said Christopher. “This is our stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Confused, Cleo followed Christopher into the redbrick apartment. It was one of those simple places, that by virtue of its central location, cost upwards of three thousand per month for a one bedroom. He was having trouble synonymizing the place with the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>institute</span>
  </em>
  <span>, particularly when he entered what was plainly Christopher’s private home on the third floor. A bookshelf of cds, dvds, and games lined one wall. Bizarre modern photography adorned the other wall. A fashion magazine—or art magazine, Cleo couldn’t tell—laid sprawled open on the burgundy couch. And the distinctive scent of firewood and spice filled the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to the Institute,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher then laughed and waved his hand. “This way.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked around the living room bend, down the short hall, into the bedroom. Christopher closed the door behind Cleo. Cleo recalled his company’s stray remarks last night with some apprehension. Breuston’s assault was too fresh on his mind. But Christopher seemed to have no intent of the sort, and instead walked toward his closet door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He placed his hand on the knob. Cleo blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could swear—it wasn’t quite physical—but he could swear that the door changed. Like the density of air when the skeleton horror appeared, but not so heavy, not so dark. Just—a change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher opened the door and stepped aside. Cleo approached. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no closet on the other side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a hallway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the actual </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A very magical fuck,” said Christopher. He ducked into the hall and winked seductively. “Come inside.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nearly blushed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He entered the hall. The door shut behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a long hall. A Victorian-esque, blue-carpeted hall with dark imprinted wallpaper. Arching gothic windows lined the right side, and more doors—more portals?—lined the left side. Beyond the windows, as Cleo saw when Christopher led him past, was a high view of a thickly wooded area. And the sun—the sun was well in the sky, far past where it should be at ten in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we?” said Cleo. “Geographically?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are on the Hecatian Island,” said Christopher, “in the northern Mediterranean. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of it. We’re off the map.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ. I was thinking we’d take a ride to Cambridge…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “Headquarters in every major city? That would be nice, but we don’t have the manpower. There are about thirty-two thousand registered mages, and less than a third of those are wardens or warden-apprentices of the Institute. I think we’re at ten thousand now? Barely enough to inhabit the island. But it’s not bad. These doors you see here?” He pointed to the closed doors they passed, each marked with a bronze placard. “These lead to our houses and apartments and what-have-yous out in the world. But when work’s done, we come back here. Home. Family. You know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As if on cue, a door down the hall swang open and a lanky dark man appeared. He started down this way and spotted Christopher. “Oy, Carrasquillo! Missed you at the match last night. Got tied up? Oh, who’s this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s the tie up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” The blond laughed. Cleo glared. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn, </span>
  </em>
  <span>bud. Guess I shouldn’t keep you guys. Got a session to run anyway. Take it easy, okay?” He looked at Cleo and winked. “Don’t let the redhead push you around too much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love you too, Kendrick,” Christopher called after him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the man was out of earshot, Cleo sighed in annoyance. “Was that really necessary?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course not,” said Christopher. They had reached the stairs. “But he keeps telling me my personality’s too aggressive to win gold. I can’t miss a chance to prove him wrong.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>haven’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>proven him wrong,” corrected Cleo. “But more importantly—back to the mages. Forty-six thousand registered mages, you said? Is that what I am, a mage?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At the moment, yes,” said Christopher. “You’re what we call a new wake. Until a person with Tapestral affinity tunes in with their channel, they’re considered to be asleep. No different from a normal person. The first time you access your channel is the moment you ‘wake.’ That’s because opening your channel is a mental thing, and getting through to it the first time is like breaking a mental block. This way—we’re going to take the backdoor.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo quieted. They had entered a wider hall, and he could hear talk coming from an adjacent place. He didn’t want to run into too many strangers, and he had a feeling that Christopher was trying to avoid questions as well. He waited until they were outside to continue questioning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stepped out into a grassy field surrounded by trees. Cleo looked behind him: the building they had left was a massive manor at least five stories tall and twice as wide. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s House Dionysus,” said Christopher. “It’s one of the six houses on campus. We’ll get to that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were saying about ‘waking’?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” They started on a path through the woodland area. “Once you wake, you’re a mage. You’re a </span>
  <em>
    <span>registered </span>
  </em>
  <span>mage after we’ve tracked you down and put you on our record. As you can imagine, we register every mage we find and we try to find all of them. But some get through our holes. Some lay low and dabble in the bad stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m assuming you do bad stuff to the registered mages who dabble in the bad stuff.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er…bad stuff to the...oh. Yes. We do. But it’s really not hard to </span>
  <em>
    <span>avoid </span>
  </em>
  <span>doing bad stuff…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo rolled his eyes. “That’s what the incarceration funders say too. Anyway, keep going. What happens after you’re a registered mage?” What would happen to him now? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Normally you get a choice,” said Christopher. “You can pretend you never triggered your affinity. That is, you go back to living your normal life on the promise that you don’t attempt to open your channel again. That’s available for people whose awakenings or spiritual energy wouldn’t naturally attract horrors or other higher entities. People who can actually lead normal, undisturbed lives if they try.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, not me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not you,” said Christopher. “You have to learn to control your affinity, so you can protect yourself and your family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds reasonable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And, in exchange for our tutelage, you become a warden.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stopped walked. Christopher turned around. Cleo crossed his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean I have to go around taking care of those nightmarish things? I have to put myself in danger?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a selfish way of thinking about it. I saved your life, didn’t I? If we didn’t have wardens, we’d have a whole lot of deaths. A whole lot of souls slurped up for energy reserves...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that I’m saying ‘fuck all’ to those souls. If I could help, I would. But I have my hands full just taking care of my family. In case you haven’t noticed, we live in a shit ass little apartment in the middle of a shit ass neighborhood, and I can’t even afford nice vegetables for—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll fund you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stopped talking. He uncrossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. “How much?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apprentice baseline is sixty-kay USD annually per individual. Since you have dependants, it’ll probably be more like eighty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eighty thousand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was double what he made currently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Apprentice baseline?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned. “Training’s a full-time job for you. Once you start picking up actual assignments, the pay can rise pretty quickly. There’s a per-task commission that far outweighs the base salary. And once you attain warden status, you get a pay raise. You could be making just as much as American doctors do, and doing exactly the same thing—saving lives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, Christopher’s redbrick apartment in Boston central didn’t seem quite so posh anymore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seeing Cleo’s expression, Christopher continued walking. Cleo followed without complaint. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was your commission for last night?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re commissioned on the grade of the exorcism. Or if we’re talking about warlocks, criminal mages, on the comparable grade of their power. So last night, I’d say that was a mid-grade. Common horror. I should be seeing a nice five grand in the bank.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo slipped his hands into his pockets. “I fried it a little for you, yeah? Do I get a contributional prize?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed. “Sure. I like you, so I’ll give you half. But you have to upgrade the coffee to a proper drink.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coffee </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a proper drink.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m talking cosmos and martinis, babe. Treat me at your bar before you quit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know I work at a bar?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your sister, obviously. What, you think I stalked you after we met?” He pulled out his phone, and seconds later, stuck the screen in front of Cleo. There on the web browser was an article dating back four years, for a national scholastic science award. “I totally did,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh.” Cleo shoved his phone away. “I’ll treat you to the drink. But just to be clear, I’m not interested.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah? Shame. In men? Or in me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In mages on the day after my near-death experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean in </span>
  <em>
    <span>saviors </span>
  </em>
  <span>of your near-death experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In aggressive personalities with a hero complex. Where are we even going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been saying—to the Institute.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Institute turned out to be a sprawling building located in the central clearing of the island. The stones were stained with age and coated with ivy, and the architecture was classically gothic—pointed chapels and flying buttresses, ornate pediments and stained glass windows. Gargoyles of a sort even adorned the posts. It was perhaps four, five times the size of the manor in the woods. Maybe larger. Cleo could not see the whole extent of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adjacent to the building, or perhaps more accurately, adjacent to the </span>
  <em>
    <span>castle</span>
  </em>
  <span>, was a wide crystalline lake where flocks of birds floated in peace. Adjacent to the lake was a dirt path, which Christopher explained led to the island village and the ship port. Across the dirt path was an open field, and within the open field, off in the distance, was something like a stadium. No surprise there. This business sounded like it came with a combat field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They entered through a sidedoor of the main building. Cleo expected some enchanted function to keep guard, but the lock mechanism on the door was a simple chip reader. Once inside, the aged gothic atmosphere modernized, with panelled lights and contemporary art frames, potted plants, a map of the premises. As they navigated the grounds, Christopher pointed out which wings housed what departments, then the locations of the library, the classrooms, the laboratories, the offices, the restricted areas, so forth. Cleo vaguely processed it. He was more interested in the people they passed, some casting curious glances, and others ignoring him entirely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were in uniform, for the most part. Some wore jackets and ties, some wore autumn sweaters, some wore light collared shirts, and some wore dresses—but all were in the same navy blue and white, with the occasional silver lining. On each uniform sat an emblem, although the emblems varied. It was the sort of stuff Cleo might expect to see in private highschools. And a good number of the people here did look like they ought to be in highschool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He asked Christopher about it as they started up a stairwell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a lot of legacies,” he said. “Tapestral affinity is usually inherited. Believe it or not, some parents </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>their kids in this line of work. But even if you’ve got the affinity, you won’t be able to channel your spiritual energy until late adolescence. Earliest kids start at sixteen. Average age for a new apprentice is maybe nineteen?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How old were you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sixteen. I’m a legacy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, your parents are wardens as well?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were. Had a bad run in with a special grade in my teens.” Christopher didn’t give Cleo time to express his condolences. “Anyway, we’re taking the hall here. Admin’s going to file your registration, and then we’re going to have the doctor take a look at your wound. See if our mysterious entity fixed you up right. Then we’ll do a short interview—case interview, that is, just for the investigation records—and then we’ll have you back in Boston to say your goodbyes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Goodbyes? You don’t expect me to </span>
  <em>
    <span>leave </span>
  </em>
  <span>the city?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would be best. You’re safest on the island—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stopped walking. A passing duo stared at him. “No. Absolutely not. I’m not leaving my family. I’m not making them move. You have those magic doors, right? Set one up for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher lifted an eyebrow and a corner of his lips. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>are very demanding for a guy who needs </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>help, you know that?” When Cleo didn’t budge, he sighed and said, “I can talk to your house leaders. Maybe we can work something out. But at the very least, you’re going to need to quit your jobs.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both of them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both of them. Now come on.”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went to administration first, where a blue-haired fellow sat with Cleo in a private office and asked him all sorts of questions about his background. He was warned, with a flat stare from behind a pair of round spectacles, that any lie would be detected. Cleo didn’t have many secrets to hide. He told the guy everything he knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was born on March 13th of 1998, in Plovdiv, Bulgaria, and then subsequently dropped in an orphanage. He was adopted weeks later by the saint of a woman he had come to call mother—Norah Sullivan. He had no record of his birth parents, no heirloom or connection apart from his first name: Cleo. Which was clearly not a Bulgarian name, but he could infer from the mirror that was not full-blooded Bulgarian. Perhaps he had streaks of Eastern European, but his appearance was predominantly East Asian. Not that Cleo was a particularly Asian name either, but the point was he knew nothing about his parents.     </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d also never actually been to his birthplace. His mother was American born and raised, had a family home in the outskirts of Greater Boston. She had been looking to adopt since her sister passed away and was looking into the local organizations when she was contacted by an old friend about a newborn across the world. Who was the old friend? the admin fellow asked. Cleo had no idea. His mother wouldn’t say. Clearly, it was someone who had known his parents—or was a parent—because why else would they reach out about the baby? Probably, his biological relations wanted nothing to do with him and so cut off all lines. He didn’t think much about it. He was just grateful that someone cared enough to see him in a good home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And it was a good home. Norah Sullivan wasn’t wealthy, but she was warm and kind. She was everything that money could not buy. She did not want him to be alone in life when she was gone, and she did not want children to be without families, so she adopted three more children: Jules and Dani together, the inseparable pair, and little Shuri several years later, all from the local orphanage. They were happy until she was diagnosed with cancer. And then, it was a relentless onslaught of misfortune.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First, their mother lost her fight. Then, the family home burned down. Insurance tried to skim a bunch of kids without relatives, but they made out with enough to cover basic expenses. Cleo was saving the bulk for his siblings’ education. Then, of course, there was last night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The admin guy didn’t ask about all of that. And Cleo was happy to avoid talking about it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a thorough discussion of his biodata, administration released him back to Christopher. Cleo then spent an hour and a half with a doctor, who checked his stomach and assured him that everything was perfectly fine. She was a mage doctor, so she also took him through some strange exams and said the results were for his file—some passive exams, some active exams, something like complex whack-a-mole and something like an intense drawing challenge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was done, the doctor peered at her computer screen for a thoughtful moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is interesting,” she said eventually. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She skimmed him head to toe and smiled faintly. “You. You sure you’re not a warlock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled and turned her monitor screen around so that Cleo could see it. There were three charts, with headers </span>
  <em>
    <span>Energy Reserve, Voluntary Reflex, </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Conceptual Capacity</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Each chart displayed something of a bell curve, and each chart had a yellow line marker with two dotted lines that typically indicated range. Each yellow line marker was positioned near the far right of the three curves, the marker on the second graph less so than others, and the marker on the last graph more so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We occasionally get a mage who’s gifted with exceptional energy reserves,” said the doctor. “We less occasionally get one whose voluntary reflexes are off the charts, like Mr. Carrasquillo. And then, very rarely, we get someone whose conceptual capacity lands here.” She pointed at the yellow marker on the last graph. It was nearly as far right as could be possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So...I’m Michelangelo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctor laughed. “Honey, you’re possibly more than that. It’s been a while since I’ve had someone with the whole package sit in this room. You have </span>
  <em>
    <span>prodigal </span>
  </em>
  <span>talent, and it’s usually the sort we see from those who’ve sold their souls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Warlocks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I’m not—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax. I know.” She tapped a device she’d tried on him in the first ten minutes of their meeting, something akin to a blood pressure reader. “If you were a warlock, you’d be restrained in the east wing by now. What I’m saying is, you’ve got a blessing if you use it right. Don’t let it go to waste.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t the first time he’d been told that. And the people who’d said it in the past...were all probably very disappointed. Not that it mattered to Cleo. The only talent he cared for was the talent it took to make his family happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he was done with the doctor, Christopher came to collect him again. This time they went through the Institute’s massive library—a colossal hall whose breadth of space spanned the ground floor to the chapel ceiling. Balconies and their respective alcoves circled the main atrium. Shelves of books stacked one atop the other. The stained glass windows spilled a kaleidoscope of color over the modern gothic decor. Cleo was breath taken at the magnificence, but all too soon, Christopher led him into the not-so-grand back hall of the library. They went up a stairwell and stopped eventually in a private office space, where Christopher set up an audio recorder and conducted his promised investigatory interview.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went through all the details of last night. Christopher pressed more about his previous encounter with Breuston this time. Cleo eyed the recorder and eventually told Christopher, vaguely, what happened at the downtown office. It felt more personal than revealing it to the cop. Because he knew he’d have to see Christopher from now on? Because he still owed the man a drink? Either way—Christopher paused his questioning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess he got what he deserved, then. You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. Christopher scratched his cheek and then proceeded as if everything was normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what’s dead is dead. What’s more pressing is that we track down the killer. Any ideas?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher leaned against the back of the desk and swirled a glass of wine. He’d offered Cleo a glass earlier, but Cleo was not in the mood to drink. “How about your social circle, then? Anyone who’s taken a particular interest in you recently?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Define recently.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Past couple weeks, I suppose. Hungry horrors and warlocks are not very patient.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo listed a small handful of people from the bar who’d asked after him, and a lady from his construction work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re very popular,” commented Christoper, who was writing down the descriptions, or names if Cleo could remember them. “Guess I shouldn’t be too surprised.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You guess?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re tiny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Excuse </span>
  </em>
  <span>me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed. “Height’s the rage, isn’t it? But aside from that, you’ve got the perfect sort of charm for all kinds of tastes. And then there’s your preliminary reading from Dr. Arkling, plus your brotherly devotion as the cherry on top. What are you, some kind of demon spawn? God’s favorite fallen angel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo narrowed his eyes. “Last time I checked, Lucifer’s not the sort of guy who’d fix up sheds to get a decent pair of shoes. Pour drinks, yeah, maybe.” He leaned back against the couch and slipped in a wry smile. “I am pretty great though, aren’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, don’t get so full of yourself just yet. You have the </span>
  <em>
    <span>talent</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You haven’t honed the skill.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go back to complimenting me, please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked amused. Cleo felt unnerved, despite his own demeanor. Ever since his childhood, he had been starkly aware that the line between </span>
  <em>
    <span>special </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>freak </span>
  </em>
  <span>was as thin as a thread. Being smart was nice until the kids stopped inviting you to hang out. Being good-looking was nice until they started saying you were made of plastic. Being a talented mage? Probably nice until the envy started eyeing you sideways and the ‘hungry horrors’ started snapping at your throat. Oh, whoops, that part had already happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least being a good brother—that didn’t come with any downsides. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about we go back to business?” said Christopher. “I can compliment you plenty afterward.” He winked. Cleo rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Cleo. When’s the first you’ve interacted with the Tapestry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As far as I’m aware, last night?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Had you experienced any paranormal occurrences before then? Hauntings? Strong deja vu, the like?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he thought about it, maybe he had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing, about his body</span>
  <em>
    <span>. </span>
  </em>
  <span>But it wasn’t something he wanted to share with a stranger. Then there was also the fire, which he’d not ever quite determined the cause of. And in the weeks leading up to their mother’s death, she had spoken often about seeing ghosts. He had thought of it as effects of the chemo, but was it a haunting? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.” He told Christopher about the two incidents. “The dying...do they have a better connection with the Tapestry or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They do,” said Christopher. “Or more accurately, the secular barrier of their souls weakens. Just like newborns can sense the Tapestral dimension, see ghosts, all that, so do those close to death. And, of course, those with affinity like the two of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My sister could see the horror last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because Breuston’s spirit possessed a physical object. Those still lingering in the veil are invisible to most of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Makes sense.” He paused. “You don’t think...my mom’s spirit could still be…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was she a vengeful woman? Hateful?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. The opposite. She was the kindest woman I’d ever known.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher smiled, softer than usual. “Then no. Congenial ghosts may linger for a few days if they are attached to this world, but they pass on quickly. The only ghosts that stay long enough to become horrors are those with malicious spirits. Some theorists say it’s because the inner Tapestry, or the cosmic fold, or the next world, wherever we go after we die—some theorists say it’s because that place won’t hold human darkness. An idealistic way of thinking, but it’s comforting, no?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded without speaking. Christopher moved on.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, I want to hear more about this house fire. I’m sorry that happened, by the way. But if you remember anything else about the—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door swang suddenly open. Christopher looked up and frowned. Cleo turned to see their intruder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a woman. Sleek back hair cropped at her shoulders, eyes as gray as a storm. She appeared about Christopher’s age, though Cleo found women’s ages more difficult to estimate than men’s. She was dressed in blouse and jeans rather than the Institute uniform, and if she was barging in on an office like this—a ranked warden, perhaps? At least not an apprentice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yasha. Can I </span>
  <em>
    <span>help </span>
  </em>
  <span>you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman, apparently named Yasha, didn’t spare Christopher a glance. She hurried to the office couch’s side, where Cleo was sitting. Her eyes were intent on him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Cleo Sullivan?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stuck out her hand sternly. “Yasha Hodzic, Head of House Kratos. I’d like to offer you a—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher slapped her hand away before Cleo could shake it. Christopher stepped between them and said, “This is inappropriate, Yasha. I’m in the middle of conducting an </span>
  <em>
    <span>investigatory </span>
  </em>
  <span>interview.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman, who was a full head smaller than Christopher and shorter than even Cleo, dropped her hands to her hips and snorted. “Right, like that’s all you’re doing.” She looked at Cleo. “Don’t let this one sweet-talk you into a drunken trap, new boy. House Dionysus is about as stuck in the weeds as House Morpheus. You don’t want to waste your talent with a bunch of mages that party more than they score.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had no idea what they were talking about, but he suddenly felt like a college basketball star. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nobody’s sweet-talking anyone,” said Christopher, “and that includes </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Cleo felt a stir in the air. Magic? The woman, at least, seemed like she was being pushed toward the door. She scowled and swiped a hand at the air, planting her feet a few steps away from the couch. Christopher walked over and continued talking. “In case you’ve forgotten, recruitment rules have changed. Get your reps to bid high if you want him. In the meantime, I do have legitimate business to conduct.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want five minutes with him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.” The door swung open on its own, and Christopher pointed toward it. “I’m politely asking you to leave my office.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman scowled deeper and muttered some foreign word. She looked at Cleo next. “I’m warning you, new boy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>fall for his cheap talk. This clown might land a decent punch, but he’s a shite mentor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher rolled his eyes. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Goodbye</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Yasha.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She glared at him once more, glanced at Cleo reluctantly, then left. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighed and turned back to Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Care to explain what that was about?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going to get to it,” said Christopher. He poured himself another glass of wine and sat on the couch seat beside Cleo. “So, you know, the Institute’s not exactly unified. Well, it is, but it’s not. We’ve historically had five different factions, five different </span>
  <em>
    <span>houses</span>
  </em>
  <span>, more for practical reasons than political reasons. Practically because this is an aggressive business, and when you’re training apprentices, you got to teach them how to go up against an intelligent enemy. You got to teach them how to work in a team. The rival house structure does that, and it gives them incentive to do well. You know how us humans love our competition—we pour more money into sports entertainment than we do into science. Probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That argument sounded pretty heated for what you just described.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because we’ve gotten more political with the system,” said Christopher. “Long story short, the Houses get ranked by a point system, based on the missions your House successfully completes. The higher your House ranks, the more annual representatives you get in the governing Board. Basically, imagine if the Democrats get an extra seat in Congress if they’re at the top of the profits chart? They’d be trying to pull in the moneymakers like crazy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds like a nightmare, to be honest.” He peered at Christopher. “So </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>you trying to sweet-talk me to get me into your House?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “I would if I could. But you’re a new wake. You don’t get to choose, and you don’t get to transfer—not for the first three years, anyway. The Board changed the rule recently ‘cus one of the Houses was pulling in too many mages off its reputation alone. So now the deal is, our House heads get together to bid on new mages, and you go to the highest bidder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry.” Christopher winked. “I know a gem when I see one. I’ll be damned if I let them outbid us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks for making me feel autonomous and unobjectified.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anytime, babe. Shall we wrap up this interview and get you back to Boston?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was more than happy to comply. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A half-hour later, they were done with business at the Institute. Christopher walked him back to the manor—House Dionysus—and talked him through some basic exercises for maintaining his channel. Reverse lucid dreaming, he said. Just as you had to hold a certain state of mind in your dreams to truly control what was happening, you had to hold a certain state of mind to maintain the Tapestral channel when awake. The dreamstate, after all, was the closest the everyday soul got to the Tapestral dimension. To bring that connection into the real world required breaking the secular barrier of consciousness. Apparently getting high in controlled doses was the easiest way to start.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they were back in Christopher’s Boston apartment, he gave Cleo a sack of marijuana tea leaves. “If you can do it without the weed, great. If you can’t, well, don’t get too dependant.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drove Cleo back home. It was nearly four in the afternoon. Christopher and his friend Amalia excused themselves for the day—Amalia said she’d placed some wards around the house and would be in the area if anything came up—and finally, Cleo was left alone with his family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani and Shuri wanted to know everything. Jules lingered around downstairs to listen. Cleo could only get through so much of the recounting before six o’clock hit, and he had to get ready for work. Money was money, after all. He’d keep taking the shifts until the mages made him quit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Liquid Emporium was as busy as usual that night. He poured drinks and entertained his customers, struck up a light conversation with a girl who seemed adamant on drinking away some kind of misery. Nine o’clock came, and that was when, in the corner of his eye, a familiar figure sat down at the counter with a book. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>different </span>
  </em>
  <span>book, again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had to wonder what sort of life the ever mysterious man had, to be able to look so fine and dress so well and drink at a bar like this, while still having enough time on his hands to devour thick novels like chocolate bites. He caught his own gaze drifting over more than once, caught himself still feeling dismayed over the rejection from a few days ago, despite everything wild that had happened in between. Dani was absolutely right. He had such a thing for literature geeks. Mature, dark, fine literature geeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He eventually found a lull in the bar service and made his way over to refill the usual Alexander. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Finished with the Count, already?” he said idly. “That one took me about a week.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth looked up and smiled. Cleo’s heart fluttered a little. Damn it—how was it that the man could still affect him like this? Physical attraction was usually an easy flame to kill for Cleo, especially when the object of his want was unobtainable. But this one...fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t put it down,” said Seth. “That, and I’ve had an abundance of time today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Must be nice. What’s this one?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth showed him the cover. It was in French—</span>
  <em>
    <span>Notre-Dame de Paris</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Par Victor Hugo</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Victor Hugo. Ah, so it must be…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>The Hunchback of Notre Dame</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Seth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo tilted his head. “You can read French.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Among others, yes,” said Seth. He mirrored Cleo’s tilt, his eyes locked on Cleo’s face. “What is that look for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked away quickly. He didn’t want to tell Seth that he was more than a little impressed. “Um, I didn’t think you were into romance.” He pointed at the book. “That one, I mean. I know it’s usually studied as Gothic literature, but I think Hugo meant to capture the romanticism of the style. And with these particular characters, he made it into one of the greatest love stories of all time. I think so, anyway…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should stop talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so too,” said Seth. Cleo looked up and found him gazing at the book, his fingers running over the inked print gently. “Even if it is quite tragic. Dark at times, and hopeless, and tortured. But no doubt, it’s a great love story.” Seth looked up at Cleo again, and smiled again. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, tout ce que j’ai aimé</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo definitely felt his skin flush. He put on a casual look. “Hm?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Oh’,” said Seth softly, “‘that was everything I’d ever loved.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Quasimodo’s final line in the novel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at the pages. Seth was not a quarter of the way through yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re rereading it,” he realized. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I come back to this one from time to time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. This was the longest conversation he’d had with Seth to date, and he suddenly was not sure where to go with it. Something about the topic seemed a little too intrusive for a bar setting between tender and customer, a little too intimate for a man who’d turned him down. And, come to think of it, Cleo probably should keep his distance anyway. He wasn’t going to be seeing Seth again after he quit this job. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He finished the brandy, which he had been mixing very slowly all this time, and set it in front of his customer with the usual grin. “Well, I should get back to the line. Enjoy your read. And your drink.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth smiled and nodded. Cleo went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The mysterious reader lingered at the bar for hours longer. He did not leave until just a few minutes before Cleo’s shift ended. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b><em>Wednesday </em>|<em> Apr. 21, 2021</em></b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two days passed. Two completely normal days. Christopher did not contact Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was just beginning to think that he’d dreamed up the past weekend when Wednesday evening happened. First he came home from construction work to find a fancy silver car parked in front of his apartment home. Then he walked into a living room packed with luggage. Dani and Shuri were at the kitchen table, doing their schoolwork. Or attempting to. A very distracting guest occupied the living room couch, served with a glass of water on the coffee table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfamiliar </span>
  </em>
  <span>guest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a blond man—woman?—in a white suit jacket. Blond as in butter blond, the sort of pale gold so fine it almost looked dyed, cropped in a perfectly straight bob that reminded Cleo of Howl from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Howl’s Moving Castle</span>
  </em>
  <span>—his mother’s favorite movie. Except the man/woman was significantly more androgynous than the magic wizard of the animated film, and their eyes were amber instead of blue. Cleo would be alarmed that this guest was neither Christopher nor Amalia (nor that woman Yasha, or anyone else he recognized), but beneath the guest’s jacket, they wore a familiar shirt with a familiar emblem. It was the Institute uniform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guest peered up at Cleo when he entered. They went back to tapping at their phone as they spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, good. You’re finally back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dry voice, no humor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who the hell are you?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Names aren’t important,” said the guest. “I’m here to transport you to your new home. So go pack, please, before we waste more time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at his sisters. Shuri wasn’t happy. Dani gave him a helpless shrug. At least they didn’t look scared.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to the guest. Or the escort, he supposed. “I’ve already said we’re not leaving the city. Where’s Christopher?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s irrelevant,” said the guest, who finally put away their phone and looked up. “You’re an apprentice of House Morpheus now. And we’re not leaving the city. We’re relocating to a prepared residence with portal access to the island.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cambridge.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo half-blinked in surprise. That was closer than he expected. A nicer neighborhood too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do I know I can trust you?” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The escort sighed in exasperation. “How did you know you could trust Christopher Carrasquillo? Sadly, there’s no skeleton horror around for me to behead. Does this satisfy you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The escort snapped their fingers—and a haze of air instantly created the vaporous form of a dragon’s head, which charged with open jaws at Cleo’s head. Dani shouted his name. Cleo reacted in instinctive fright, swiping out his arm and stumbling back into the wall. The sound of shattering glass rang out and Shuri yelped. Alarmed by his sister’s voice, he lowered his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The dragon had vanished. The glass of water sitting in front of the escort was broken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The escort peered at the glass with an unreadable expression. Then they took a napkin from the nearby box and wiped the splattered liquid from their trousers. They looked up at Cleo and said with annoyance, “You need to learn how to control that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took him a moment to realize he’d inadvertently broken the water glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure if you just tried to kill me or not,” mumbled Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead,” said the escort. “Now, will you please hurry up and pack? Or do you need me to recite your biodata? I can hold your siblings hostage if you insist on doubting my intentions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed. He did remember House Morpheus being mentioned by the Yasha woman. And it was true he’d be dead already if the mage meant him harm. He supposed this meant Christopher had lost the bid—shame. He would have preferred sticking with people he already knew. But being able to keep his family in Boston was a perk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did as he was told, because he had very little choice at this point. Dani said she’d already called Jules, and sure enough, ten minutes later, his younger brother arrived in soaked gym clothes and an unhappy scowl. They packed their things thoroughly, not that there was much to pack since the fire destroyed much of what they’d owned last year. By seven, they were in the car, following behind the escort’s vehicle and driving toward Cambridge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went through the central square cluster, into a residential area. They stopped, to Cleo’s astonishment, in the parking garage—yes, parking garage—of two-story, standalone </span>
  <em>
    <span>house</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A clean, modern house with a fence and a porch and a yard. His siblings looked as surprised as he. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was even more astonishing on the inside. Polished floors and spotless walls. Marble counters. Fully furnished. The kind of comfortable, coordinated furniture he’d never been able to afford in his life. The kind of crisp newness that suggested it had been freshly renovated for its new inhabitants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri exclaimed in delight and went to explore the house. Dani followed her, and Jules trudged grudgingly along. Cleo lingered with his escort, a little worried because all good things came with a catch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please tell me the rent’s not coming out of my paycheck,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The escort sighed. “No. Everything’s covered by House Morpheus. We’ve placed wards on the house as well, so you should be relatively safe from attack.” The escort started moving toward the stairs, which Cleo assumed meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>follow</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Obviously, you can’t stay in the house all day. You’ll find a set of warding rings on the kitchen counter for your siblings, whenever they’re out and about. As for you, you’re expected to report to training on grounds whenever required. That starts tomorrow at 11 AM CET. That’s 5 AM EST for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had arrived in the master bedroom on the second floor. Also fully furnished and neutrally decorated, with windows overlooking the backyard. The escort shut the thick cloth curtains and walked to one of two closet doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Open it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did. The door opened to a hallway similar to that of House Dionysus, but instead of blue carpeting and blue print walls, everything was stone. Polished and clean, but gray slate stone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Walk through it and come back,” instructed the escort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did this too. The escort shut the door afterward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The key’s in the top desk drawer. As an extra measure, the portal is spelled to allow you access, and only you. The door won’t open for anyone else coming from this side. It’ll stay this way until you’ve mastered your magic enough to alter the enchantment yourself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if there’s an emergency?” he said. “What if my family needs it as an escape?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, then I suggest you learn enchantments quickly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is that not satisfying?” said the escort. “If I’m not mistaken, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>offered an alternative. You refused it. You wanted to stay in Boston. This,” the escort gestured around the room, “is already far more than most new apprentices are afforded. Consider it a favor from a powerful benefactor who has an interest in your development. You’d best not disappoint him, Mr. Sullivan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The escort turned to leave. They paused at the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and another word of advice. I’d be modest around the other apprentices about these accommodations if I were you. Remember, tomorrow morning at 11 CET, in the eastern tower. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And with that, the escort vanished out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo didn’t see them off and instead checked the remainder of his room. There was a private bathroom. A proper closet. The proper closet was stocked with Institute uniforms—five button-ups, two in white, one in light blue, one in gray, and one in navy blue; three light sweaters, white, navy, gray; a couple sets of trousers, a couple pairs of shoes—too fancy to be sneakers but too practical to be dress shoes; two suit jackets; three tucked ties. They were all his size. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He went through the furniture next. As promised, a traditional silver key on a chain waited in the topmost drawer of the desk. So did an ID card with his photo, name, date of birth, and new Institute number. He placed the ID on the desk top so he wouldn’t forget to bring it in the morning, then took the key to the portal. The knob was smooth, no slot from this side, taking the image of an innocuous closet door. But from the hall side, it could only be opened with the key. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was trying the key out when his little sister’s delighted voice called out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, Cleo, you have to see my room! I get my own room!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stepped back into his bedroom and smiled at Dani and Shuri, the latter now peering around his room in wonder. “This is so </span>
  <em>
    <span>big,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” she said. “The bed is so big!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an unnecessarily big bed. Clearly the master bedroom had been intended for a couple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani came toward Cleo. He stepped aside as her mouth dropped open at the hallway beyond the closet. “What the heck is this? There’s no way—is this </span>
  <em>
    <span>magic</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Holy shit, this is some Harry Potter level of fuckery…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was stepping between the bedroom and the island hall now. Shuri, who just noticed, crawled off the bed she’d hopped on and started over. But before she reached, Dani, who was looking around the island hall, suddenly widened her eyes and cursed. She quickly dodged back into the room and shut the portal door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I saw someone,” she said nervously. “Can he get inside?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo dangled the key in his hand. “Nope. Try opening the door again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, the portal door opened to an empty closet room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?” said Dani.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo closed the door and reopened it. The hallway reappeared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No way,” whispered Dani. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cool</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” whispered Shuri. “Can I try?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His little sister opened the portal to the empty closet room. She tried it twice with dismay.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>the only one who can make it magic?” said Shuri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For now, yes,” said Cleo. He ruffled her hair gently. He was not worried about her spreading stories—Dani had already talked with her about this over the weekend. What he was worried about was the lure of magic to an imaginative child. Incredible as these revelations were, the world of horrors and warlocks and wardens seemed very dangerous, and he did not want his siblings involved. But what was he supposed to say to her? Ignore everything she’d heard and seen? It wouldn’t work. “You said you wanted me to see your room?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri perked up again. He went on a tour of the house with his siblings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each of them had their own room, generally furnished to their age. Dani and Shuri shared a connected bathroom, and Cleo and Jules had each their own. There was a fourth bathroom on the first floor, along with an empty sunroom overlooking the spacious backyard. This place was more generous than even the Sullivan family home that had burned down, and certainly a lot less flammable. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this to charm him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For Institute House politics, to keep him as a point-scorer when he refined his talent? If he refined his talent? The escort had warned him not to disappoint his benefactor. What happened if he disappointed his benefactor? Would they be forced to move out? Or would repayment be expected?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t the only one having these thoughts. After dinner, and after Shuri was sent off to bed, Dani and Jules helped with unpacking in the living room. Cleo could feel their uncertainty in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m really sorry about this,” he started to say. “I know it’s a lot. If it counts for anything—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>sorry?” said Dani. “The fucker who assaulted you should be sorry.”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. Was she talking about the skeleton? Or before that, Breuston? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she’d put two and two together. Probably. The things he’d unthinkingly said during the night attack, they might have spilled too much. But he hated the thought. He didn’t want his brother and sister to see him as that kind of vulnerable. He was supposed to protect them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo?” said Dani, softer. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no,” he said, smiling. “I was just thinking that he probably is sorry. With the way he ended up going…” Cleo sighed. “This is all pretty fucked, isn’t it? I wish I could still believe it’s all a long dream, but freakishly enough, it’s starting to feel real.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani shrugged as she set up some photos along the fireplace mantle. “Humans are adaptable. Plus, isn’t it just like Mrs. Lilou always said? There’s way too much shit going on in this world for our little neat science equations to explain everything. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been waiting for a Hogwarts letter </span>
  <em>
    <span>for ages. </span>
  </em>
  <span>If it weren’t for all that Poltergeist and Babadook shit you’re gonna have to deal with, I’d be jealous.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm. I’ve never actually seen The Babadook.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you’re asking for a watch buddy, you’re on your own. Or ask Jules. I’m not touching horror films for the rest of my </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jules? How about it? Movie night this weekend?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A box of books landed particularly loudly on the table. Jules turned to Cleo with a hard frown. “This is too much. You know it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jules?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The house. The protection. The goddamn apples in the fridge! You’re just a nobody with a bunch of nobody siblings, and they’re out here treating you like the mayor’s nephew. Something’s not—ow!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani had gone up to Jules and smacked his arm. She looked angry. “Cleo’s not a nobody. How can you say that? How could you even </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My point is—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know,” said Cleo. He smiled a bit. “I know what you’re worried about. But Jules, there’s just too much we don’t understand right now. Whether the wardens are setting me up, whether there’s actually a murdering warlock after me, or whether this is all just some—some very advanced, very fucked up reality TV show—the only thing we can do right now is play along. We almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>died </span>
  </em>
  <span>last weekend, Jules. So whatever they want for these wards, this training? It’s got to be worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what if you get hurt?” blurted out his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked in surprise. Jules dropped his gaze to the floor quickly. Immediately, Cleo was ashamed for feeling surprised. Did he think his brother wouldn’t care? Wouldn’t prioritize his wellbeing? Jules wasn’t like that. Whatever caused the distance between them these past years, Cleo knew Jules still loved him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed, putting some light humor into the breath, and propped his hands onto his hips. “So, you were out for this part, Jules. But Dani can confirm that I burnt the living shit out that skeleton. Me? Get hurt? I’ll have you know that everyone who ever bullied me in middle school ended up crying in detention, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>because I ratted them out.” He paused, seeing that his words weren’t quite reaching his brother. He sighed again, silently this time. “Besides, I trust my instinct. And my instinct tells me that Christopher, at least, is on our side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why didn’t he come pick us up today? Why hasn’t he reached out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. “Busy with work, probably. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll stop by his place tomorrow. Anyway, it’s getting late, and I have to be up </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>early tomorrow. Let’s finish up these two boxes and then get some rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You go sleep,” said Dani. “Jules and I will take care of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled. “Thanks. Wake me up if you need anything, okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He retreated to his room. Once there, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number that Christopher had left him. He hadn’t thought much of it until Jules brought it up, but why </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>he reached out? Even if he’d lost the bid, Cleo still owed him a drink. He ought at least have given Cleo a heads up that someone else was coming to pick him up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone rang six times. It went to voicemail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo ended the call and stared at the screen, worried. Should he text?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. Christopher was clearly capable of handling himself. If anything, he’d probably just written Cleo off as unimportant as the moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting aside the thought, Cleo washed up for bed. He struggled to fall asleep in a new room, too spacious and very lonely. He had been struggling to fall asleep even in his own home—his former home—since the incident. Hinderings of a too-vivid mind. The shadows looked like they moved. And he always, every time he turned off the lights, felt the presence of eyes on him. It was just his imagination. Probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually he gave up and turned on the lamp. Felt like a child. But without Jules in the room, the darkness was too much. Some time later, he heard faint footsteps outside, his siblings retiring to bed. Still he laid awake, tossing and turning for what felt like hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d barely begun to drift when his phone alarm went off. It was 4:20 A.M.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave himself twenty minutes to eat and get ready, another twenty minutes to find the tower he was supposed to report to. He felt exhausted tugging on the uniform, stuffing down some milk and cereal downstairs. But when he opened his portal door, the brightness of late morning sun jarred him awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was almost 11 in the morning on the other side of the door. Late April in the Mediterranean Sea was not so different from Boston, and the halls in particular had been warmed by the rising sun. So he was situated on the east side. That made finding the eastern tower simpler, hopefully. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wandered down the hall, hoping to find a map or a person to point him the way. He should have asked the escort for directions. Not a big mistake—he was located on the third floor of the building, and before he had even reached the stairwell, he ran into a pair of uniformed women talking in the corridor. They looked around Dani’s age, maybe older. Young apprentices, no doubt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...bunch of prents struggling with second tier manip. And she just kept batting with her shadow with her hands tucked in her pockets. Like, yeah, Hathai, you’re good. We fucking got the point.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The taller woman rolled her eyes. “There you go. Another stuck-up with talent and no tact. Don’t let it bug you, girl. She’ll get put in her place soon enough.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shorter woman blew out a loud, annoyed breath. Before she responded, Cleo cut in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse me? I’m looking for the east tower. Mind pointing me in the right direction?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pair turned. Tall woman blinked at his face in surprise. Short woman skimmed him up and down. Cleo pulled on a friendly smile and watched the two mirror his expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Haven’t seen you around. New here?” said the tall woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very,” said Cleo. “My first time in the building, in fact.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Not a legacy?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a stray.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall woman’s smile twitched in amusement. “An American stray, eh? Cute accent. Anyway, what did you say you were looking for again?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“East tower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh. Okay. You got a date there or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “No clue. I was just told to be there at ten.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall woman frowned. “By who? Not to pry, you know—just trying to make sure you’re not getting hazed by one of the uppers. The east tower’s kind of a lonely little spot. Weird place for any sort of official business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t catch their name. But androgynous, blonde hair cropped to here, straight bangs across, about this tall...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yisroel</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” said the shorter woman. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The tall woman: “Dry as a desert? Cold as a tundra? And more than a little scary?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn,” said the tall woman. “You weren’t joking about being a stray if you haven’t heard of Yisroel Jostad. But hell, you’re no regular stray if she’s meeting you this early out, eh? Anyway. East tower’s past this hall. Take a left and keep going until you reach the study wing. Then you go through the wing to the far back, and head down the hall ‘til you hit the corner.”  She checked her phone. “You said ten, right? Better get going then. See you around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo thanked them and went on his way, hearing their curious murmurs trail his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The directions led him past the third floor residential corridor. Though, like House Dionysus’s hallways, it could not be truly called a residential corridor. Doors lined nearly side by side like rows of dominoes. No space in between to actually house full rooms. They were all portals—and in this building alone, there must be hundreds. Hundreds of apprentices, no doubt even full-fledged wardens like Christopher. Inevitably, Cleo ran into a few faces on his way. But he didn’t want to be late to his first appointment, so he carefully avoided eye contact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found the study wing—a well-lit common area with shelves, couches, and little private alcoves. At this hour, it was mostly empty. He found the corridor beyond the wing, and it was indeed an empty place. No electric lights here. Just vivid morning sunlight through the window glass, which overlooked the island forest beyond. Cleo walked down the hall and eventually came upon a round wellway bulge at the outer corner of the turn. He took the winding stairs up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A closed wooden door waited at the top of the stairs. He knocked three times. No response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned the brass knob and pushed the door open, his pulse higher than usual. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>strange that he’d been asked to be here, in this isolated corner of the massive building. Inductions and orientations tended to be more...public. At least in his mundane experience. And from what the escort—Yisroel—said, from what the two women said, the powerful players of this game had expectations of him already. Was this a test?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door opened to a barren tower room, small in diameter but tall in height. Someone had left two empty beer bottles in the corner. Someone had left a magazine upon the stone floor. It was too dim to make out the cover of the magazine—the only sunlight came from a small window facing east. And upon that windowsill sat a black crow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One eye black. One eye yellow. Both eyes piercing.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo held its gaze for a moment, feeling instinct claw along his spine. He looked over his shoulder at the doorway. He looked back at the crow, who was still gazing at him. He sighed through his nose and turned around, pulling the door closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as he did—as soon as he enclosed himself in that barren tower room—he staggered back in disorientation. Except it was not internal disorientation. It was his senses struggling to process the onslaught of sudden external change. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door vanished. The tower vanished. Gone was the musty scent, the dim morning light. A breeze fluttered through his hair, carrying the scent of earth and greens. Distant string music and bird chirps replaced the lonely silence. Unhindered sunlight illuminated his vision. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It seemed that that was all he’d done—blink. And somehow, suddenly, he was standing in—in a small garden pavilion? A round pavilion stationed in the middle of a green pond. Autumn leaves floated from willow trees on the still water. A wooden bridge linked the pavilion to a wide stone deck. Beyond the deck was a building, a small manor with wooden columns and simple architecture. Around the manor was a woodland of trees enclosing this pond garden. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic again. Astounding and horrifying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked around for the crow. He needed only to turn around and face the other side of the pavilion. Standing four steps away was a man who watched him with those same two-colored, piercing eyes. A man whose braided hair had turned to silver, whose skin had folds of age. But strongly built in his collared shirt and fitted black slacks, and despite the age, still one of the most handsome men that Cleo had met. Undoubtedly powerful—he just had that air.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo wanted to say something. But the look the man gave him dried his throat. It seemed to pry apart his very soul. He knew he was being judged, and he was afraid one wrong word would ruin what seemed to be an essential moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last the man’s intense gaze eased under a faint smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So you are Cleo Sullivan,” he said, with a faded accent, a voice soft in sound but firm in strength. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am. And you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can call me Blue. I am a warden of House Morpheus, and your mentor for the foreseeable future.” The man had turned around. On the pavilion sill sat a wooden tray with a teapot and two cups. He poured both and offered one to Cleo. “A drink?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took it to be polite. The cup was small, clay. The tea was foreign. Smelled of sugared earth. He sipped at it and was pleasantly surprised. “That’s good. What kind of tea is it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A family recipe. If you prove a good apprentice, I might one day share it with you.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked down at his cup. “Everyone seems to assume I’ll be worth their effort just because the doctor pulled out some nice graphs. I’ll be honest—I’ve got no clue if I’m anything more than the numbers. So if you’re expecting me to impress you, you should equally expect to be disappointed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue chuckled. “You want to be free of our expectations. Understandable, but fruitless. The Order of the Secular exists as a frontier in an everlasting war, Cleo. As long as we fight, we will expect victory. And you, you have the prerequisites of a Musashi, a Leonidas, an Alexander. So of course, the Order will try to make you into a warrior of the same caliber.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Order? You mean the Institute?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. The Andronicus Institute is physical and modern front of the Order. The younger ones simply call it the Institute. Walk with me, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed Blue onto the bridge. The old man continued speaking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In usual circumstances, you would join your peers in the classroom to develop your talents together. But you are unique, Cleo, and not just because your triage capacity is particular. Because you’re in particular danger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chill ran up his spine. “Christopher told you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“About the incident in Boston, yes. The entity that targeted you—the manner in which it did suggests the attachment is strong. Extensive. Our wards might deter it for a time, but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>come after you again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What does it want?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That depends on what it is, I suppose. There are two kinds of beings powerful enough to force a ghost to vesselize in one day. The first is a warlock. Someone who was originally human, but underwent spiritual alteration in exchange for power and is now part horror. And the second is...a conglomerate horror.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue went silent. Just as Cleo was about to press, the man slowed his footsteps to a stop. He rested a weathered hand on the bridge rail, then continued. “We call them calamities. Some call them gods. In essence, they form as conscious beings from the conglomeration of ghosts that are not quite able to pass, but not quite malicious enough to become horrors either. But all that small malice and lingering unrest moulded together? Ah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue shook his head. Looked heavy. Cleo had the sense that this was somehow personal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Some are relatively minor. Conglomerations of a few dozen or less. Others embody the thousands, hundred thousands from wars and catastrophes. Those can be devastatingly powerful. Either way, they are...dark, empty beings. Not mindlessly driven by anger or hate or wickedness like horrors, but worse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mindfully </span>
  </em>
  <span>driven by human darkness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nearly shivered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Basically…I should hope it’s warlock that’s after me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue gave him a sidelong glance and a half-smile. He began walking again. “Maybe. Warlocks are human in part. Their motivations are less predictable. It might be as innocuous as a crush gone wrong. Calamities, though?” He shook his head. “Everything they desire is filled with darkness.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue glanced at him again. Cleo blinked, wondering if the old man was a prickler about language. He cleared his throat and made a note to watch his cussing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m assuming you can exorcise calamities?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The same way you exorcise any other horror,” said Blue. “You destroy its vessel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Its body?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Essentially. A horror—or a calamity—is a spiritual existence. You can’t destroy a spiritual existence the way you would destroy a building. But you can destroy what it is bound to. Anything without a physical vessel merely lingers in the divide between the Tapestry and the Secular, manifesting only in our dreams or by our sixth sense. For example, ghosts who are unable to pass on. But when a ghost is imbued with enough force of spiritual energy—malice—it acquires the magnetism necessary to latch onto a physical vessel. It becomes able to channel the seams of the Tapestry in the Secular.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it can’t switch vessels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Not without deliberate ritual. Warlocks and calamities have managed it, but it takes time. Time that they would not have if an exorcism is performed properly. The challenge, of course, is that powerful calamities and warlocks are very difficult to touch. By nature, they have stronger Tapestral attunement than mortal mages like ourselves. Which brings us to our lesson.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo followed Blue through the doors of the wooden manor. The first room was a simple hall with a tea table at the center and two cushions at either side. Blue gestured for Cleo to sit. He did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Blue joined him on the other side, Cleo’s attention drifted to the string music. It was soft, distant. Eastern. Gentle vibrations, soothing. Beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is the music coming from?” he asked as Blue sat down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somewhere,” said Blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Somewhere?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue smiled and pulled a pebble out of his pocket. He set this pebble on the center of the table. “When you advance far enough into your training, I will tell you. But first, we will begin with this rock. Tell me—what do you see when you look at this rock?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stared at the rock. “Um, a gray lump?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see a sword,” said Blue, his two-colored eyes glittering. “I see fire. I see a Chinese garden with spring peonies, and a pride of lions prowling the streets.” Suddenly, the stone morphed into a crow. A living crow. The crow peered at Cleo, cawed once, and then fluttered off through the open window. When Cleo looked back at the table, a stone was there once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That is magic,” said Blue. “The ability to create the impossible. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the Tapestry. The realm of infinite possibility.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But there are limitations,” said Cleo, echoing Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are limitations,” said Blue. “Creation, for example, is limited to the creator’s conscious awareness. What you make from the Tapestral weave will only exist for as long as your mind is able to conceptualize it to the necessary extent. Lose consciousness or focus, and it vanishes. Crossing into the spiritual territory of another is also impossible. You can’t manipulate or invade a person’s mind. You can’t manipulate or invade their vessel unless you mould your vessel with theirs. We will discuss that later.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue tapped the pebble on the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Today, you will move this rock without touching it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stared at the pebble. Sounded like a simple task compared to what he had seen other mages do, but…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In terms of mastering magic,” said Blue, “I believe this is the hardest task I will ask you to do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. “How’s that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because it is the barrier to accessing your innate talent. Any feat of magic requires three things: capacity, conceptualization, and connection. Your capacity is your spiritual reserve, and you can’t control that. Not unless you become a warlock and throw away your humanity. You have what you are born with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if it runs out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It replenishes. Like stamina. But, like stamina, if you exert yourself beyond your capacity, your spirit will collapse just as your heart would give out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Conceptualization is the limiter for most mages. For warlocks and horrors and calamities as well. The greatest sorcerers are often the ones with the greatest minds, you see. That is the theory of magic. To create a new reality, be it moving a rock or forming a bird, you must be able to conceptualize every necessary detail of that reality. Let’s speak in terms you would understand. You created fire, no? Then you remember that you envisioned not a vagary, but the look, the scent, the heal, the feel, the very corrosion of fire. That’s no easy feat. Something, in fact, that only half of all wardens can manage, even after years of training. If your concept is insufficient, your reality will not come to pass. If your concept is flawed, your reality will be worse than flawed.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You...you were the crow in the tower, right? So you ‘conceptualized’ that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if something had gone wrong…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If my concept had slipped? I would have broken my vessel. I would have died.” Blue smiled faintly. “There’s no need to worry about me. I’m quite practiced. But you’re right to notice—most would not attempt such a thing. Anyway, Cleo, conceptualization isn’t your greatest concern at the moment. It’s connection.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The channel to the Tapestry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly. You can’t weave the possibilities you envision if your channel is closed. Intense disorientation and fear can open the channel—when you’re not spiritually grounded in the Secular, that is. But if you want to be able to use magic at will, you need to be able to open that channel at will. You need to break the Secular barrier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mental block. Right. Christopher had me take some weed...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Weed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, marijuana.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue broke into thundering laughter, slapping his knees all the while. Cleo didn’t think it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>funny, but now he was feeling a little embarrassed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Throw it out,” said Blue, still humored. “Throw it all out. You don’t need weed. Anyway, for high tier manipulations, you will need a sober mind. So now,” he tapped the table, “you’re going to do this with a clear head. No delusions. Move the rock to your side of the table.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stared at the pebble. He exhaled slowly and envisioned the rock on his side of the table. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached for the state of mind he had when he dreamed. A sort of hazed carelessness? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No luck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried a calm, meditated breathing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five minutes later, the pebble had not moved an inch. Annoyed, Cleo looked up to find Blue watching him, his elbow propped on the table, his chin propped on his hand, a strangely soft look in his two-colored eyes. Or maybe Cleo had imagined it. In a blink, those eyes were back to their usual composed clearness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help,” Cleo said weakly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue chuckled and shook his head. “This, I’m afraid, is not something I can help you with. The connection with the Tapestry is a spiritual state. You must feel it yourself. You must find the answer yourself. The more I guide you with my words, the further you will get from accomplishment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue stood. As soon as he did, disorientation overwhelmed Cleo again. The wooden room vanished, as did the sound of music and birdsong. He was suddenly sitting back in the east tower, that pebble sitting on the stone floor in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It will take you some days to master this,” said Blue. He pulled a small white cloth from his pocket and handed it to Cleo. “When you grow tired of practice, use this to clean the floor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Once your mind begins to drift, opening the channel might become misleadingly easier,” said Blue. “The cloth will keep you grounded in the Secular. It will provide you with the kind of training you actually need. I’ll be back to check on you next week.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it? I’m supposed to stare at this pebble and scrub the floors like it’s a full time job?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are getting paid handsomely for it, aren’t you? But no, you’ll also join the others for communal lunch at one. And you’ll attend Morpheus’s afternoon combat sessions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Watch</span>
  </em>
  <span>, only. Now if you run into any trouble, scream loudly and someone will come help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, great. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue quirked a smile. “It was good to see you, Cleo. Until next time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo didn’t have time to respond before Blue morphed into a crow, clothes and all, and fluttered out the small window. With a silent groan about the overwhelming absurdity of everything, Cleo rubbed his face and went back to staring at the lifeless pebble.     </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b><em>Thursday</em> | <em>Apr. 22, 2021</em></b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>By one o’clock, Cleo had made no progress. Frustrated and exhausted—more so than he ever had been working hours of physical labor—he made his way down to the dining hall, where the aroma of rich, intermingled spices perked his mood. Rows of wooden tables hosted dozens of apprentices, who filled the generous chamber with animated chatter. Already, Cleo could spot the cliques of any institution: a circle of pretty women, a band of muscled bros, the quirky group, the colorful one, the racial clusters, so on. He wasn’t the sort to pick up his meal and find a quiet corner. Never had been. Before his priorities had changed, he’d enjoyed being social. Now, though? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It felt like a task.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did the fun part first. Stocked his tray full of delicious food, which was themed a combination of Middle Eastern and Mediterranean. Coincidentally, the former happened to be his taste of choice. When he was satisfied with his selection, he scanned the hall for a friendly place to sit. The girls from earlier—now joined by their three other friends—caught his eye. The tall one met his gaze and waved him over with a wide smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was on his way when he sensed someone approaching. He had no sooner turned than a hand grasped his shoulder. It was another woman, older than the ones he had met earlier. Cropped, blue-dyed hair and a strong face. She was wearing the men’s uniform. She eyed him with a faint smile and said, “You Cleo Sullivan?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heard about you.” She gestured over at her table, where two men and another woman were peering over. “Come sit with us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I was…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She clapped his shoulder. “You can join your little friends in a hot sec, okay? We just want to introduce ourselves. It won’t take long.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed quietly. He was having highschool flashbacks. With an apologetic smile for the girls from earlier, he followed the woman to her table. It was an eclectic table, no signature vibe except an air of confidence. One of the men was prim from head to toe, chocolate hair sleeked with spray. The other fellow was lanky and casual, with two-day stubble on a long chin. The other woman was a pretty brunette, who tugged at her small pearly earrings as Cleo took his seat. She spoke first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re smaller than I expected.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lanky guy snickered. Cleo sighed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I get that a lot. But why were you expecting anything at all?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Krats were talkin’ about you in rounds this morning,” said the lanky guy, leaning forward. “Apparently, their Head’s pretty pissed she lost you over the bids. Same with the Sunboys.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry—Krats? House Kratos, you mean? And Sunboys—who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Krats, Kratos, yup,” said the lanky guy. “Sunboys—that’s House Apollo, top of the pyramid for a couple of years now. I gotta say, it’s not often you get such a blown up feud over a lost recruit. So tell us, Sullivan—what makes you so special?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” said the crop-haired woman, “I invited him over for intros, not in</span>
  <em>
    <span>terros</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She turned to Cleo. “Name’s Maya Zhu. This here’s my squad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackie here,” said the prim man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Natasha Ratliff,” said the other woman, holding out her hand. “S’not an insult, by the way. About the height. You’re cuter than my fucking corgi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, thanks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lanky guy propped his elbow up and dropped his chin on his hand. “You can call me Bax. Born and raised in the lovely little republic of Macedonia. I hit tier three on a good day, but most days I’m struggling to spell up a decent glass of tequila. So, your turn. Tell us about yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much to say,” said Cleo. “You know my name. I’m from the States. Didn’t know any of this stuff existed up until a couple of days ago, can’t really move a pebble at the moment, so if you ask me, the Houses got way ahead of themselves.” He shrugged. “Someone probably overbid.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha whistled. “Modesty. That’s hella cute too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Just honest confusion is all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maya chuckled and clapped his shoulder again. “Don’t worry, brother. Unless you’re a legacy, you’re bound to be bamboozled out of your mind for a couple days. But Morph’s got your back, okay? </span>
  <em>
    <span>We’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>got your back. You need anything, you come ask us. Questions answered, training partner, whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doggy therapy, a tumble in the sheets…” Natasha winked. “You know, anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Might take you up on the dog therapy someday,” Cleo said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Love it. Please do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They chatted a little longer about nothing substantive before Maya made good on her promise not to keep him for long. Cleo thanked them and excused himself, bringing his untouched tray of food to the table where the girls from earlier waited. The tall one smiled at him pointedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Cleo, eh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I never did catch your names.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m Tracey. This is Brielle.” She introduced the other women at the table before nodding to the table from where he’d just come. “I see the Bones have got their eyes on you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Bones? They’re not just a clique of friends?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hell no,” said Tracey. “They’re a hit squad. You know about those?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I figured. So let’s start at the beginning—the Houses, you know, we compete for ranks. There’s an annual tally of points to figure out whose first, second, third, so on, and then we get Council seats based on our House ranks. Basics. And the points, you earn those by completing missions from the Board once you’re a senior apprentice. The solo options are for exorcising low or mid-grade horrors. But unless you’re a senior warden, you gotta go with a registered squad for the restricted high grade postings.” She nodded at the table again. “They’re one of those squads. Pretty ambitious. Pretty skilled. Jackie’s the only senior apprentice, and the rest are junior wardens. Not usual that they take an interest in newbies, but I guess you’re not usual, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo scratched his ear. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me, and I’m trying hard as hell to keep their expectations managed, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tracey snorted. “That’s never going to work. People expect what they expect. Anyway, how did your meet-up with Yisroel go?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He told her vaguely about the training. The table, which had been quiet, began to warm up to him after they heard he was struggling to move a pebble. He got a boatload of tips that he tucked away for the afternoon.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turned out, none of them helped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three o’clock came. Per Tracey’s instruction, he made his way down the the House gym for the Morpheus combat sessions that Blue had told him to attend. The instructor, a slender fellow, asked for his name, gave him a nod, and allowed him to watch without disturbance. The participants glanced over a few times, but soon their attention was absorbed in the session. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a team match today. Two sets of seven. Others watched from the sidelines, cycling in and out on call. The rules were stringent—no kneeling, no squatting, no lifting their feet from the ground. A stumble meant you were out. Everything was about making use of the Tapestry to knock your opponents off their feet. Cleo watched in fascination as hurls of wind collided with conjured shields, as invisible hands tugged on shirts and collars, as fire crawled along the insulated gym floor. Some held on longer than others. Some understood the team element better than others. But Cleo couldn’t help but think—if the Tapestry was the realm of infinite possibility, why not simply vanish the floor under the opposing team? You couldn’t keep your feet planted on something that did not exist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surely someone had thought of it. Was the conceptualization of vanishment too difficult? Or was it another one of those limitations? But the eastern tower, it had vanished with Blue’s magic, entirely replaced with another scene…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The longer Cleo watched, the more questions he had. He couldn’t keep track of them all, so when he returned home that evening, he jotted them down in a notebook. At seven, he got a call from the Emporium. He was late for work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t quite bring himself to quit on the phone, not just then, not like that. Something about the city atmosphere, the people, the liquor and mixes. Kept him grounded in his old life. So he just told his manager that he was sick Thursday, then Friday. Saturday he was damn near tearing out his hair over the unmoving pebble. Sunday, Cleo decided to return to the Emporium for at least one more evening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seven o’clock Sundays were slow at the bar. Mostly people winding down from a family day at home, or prepping for the week ahead. Half past the hour, while Cleo was cleaning out some machines behind the counter, his coworker tapped his shoulder and gave him a sly smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Behind you,” said his coworker. “The usual brandy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His pulse may have picked up a little, but if anyone asked, he would deny it. He gave his coworker a feigned look of light annoyance. His coworker didn’t buy it and chuckled. Cleo set down his cleaning towel and walked over to where Seth was sitting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth was just setting up his spot. Opening up his book. Still the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunchback</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but nearing the end now. He was certainly taking his sweet time with that one. Cleo stopped in front of him and crossed his arms over the counter. “Hi there. What can I get for you today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth peered up and smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still beautiful. Damn it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi,” said Seth. “An Alexander would be nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One brandy Alexander, coming right up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned around to fix the drink. A few moments passed in relative quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then: “Have you been feeling well?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned with a half-mixed drink. He smiled at Seth as he poured the liquor. “Worried? Missed me? Should have taken up my offer the first time, darling. I don’t do second chances.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth just smiled. “That isn’t what I’m looking for.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed and pushed his finished drink across the counter. “Then what are you looking for? Handsome guy like you shows up every other night in a loud, busy bar just to read a few chapters of old classics. Where’s that habit come from if you’re not looking for a pick-up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like the drinks. I like the atmosphere. It’s calming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” Cleo hummed and stepped away. “That’s good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably my last night here. But, hey, drinks and atmosphere aren’t going anywhere.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if he sounded desperate. He wasn’t, really. He didn’t get desperate over any men, no matter how handsome, how well-read, how mysterious and charming. But a part of him had definitely been hoping for the quiet pause that followed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are you going?” said Seth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that’s a secret. Can’t share with customers. Would mess with the noncompete terms of my employment contract.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth was quiet. He picked up his drink and sipped the brandy. Cleo waited a few seconds for something, anything. He’d take the guy out on a date in a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” Seth said eventually. “That’s a shame. I’ll miss your drinks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hummed. He really hated the way his chest deflated. He forced the feeling aside and walked away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half past ten, near the close of his shift, he glanced toward Seth’s spot and found it empty. Bastard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned around. Blinked. Seth was standing across the counter, holding out his book in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here,” he said. “For you. A gift for all your drinks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked down at the book. It was the French copy of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Hunchback of Notre Dame</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He couldn’t even read the damn thing. But he took it regardless. The cover was warm from Seth’s hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um, thank you.”</span>
</p><p><span>Seth smiled and said a phrase Cleo didn’t quite catch. </span><em><span>Ayashay...</span></em><span>something.</span> <span>Before Cleo could ask him to repeat it, he followed up with, “Take care, Cleo.” And then he left. </span></p><p>
  <span>That night, Cleo sat in bed with the book in his lap like a besotted teenager. He wasn’t besotted though. He was actually quite sober and upset—because inside the book, across the back cover, Seth had at some point scrawled his full name, address, and phone number. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Return if found</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Cleo couldn’t tell if the man was leaving him a contact. Wanted him to call. Or if the gift was entirely innocent. Or if the guy was playing him in some long game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t have time for games, not for this itch to google search </span>
  <em>
    <span>Seth El-Masry</span>
  </em>
  <span>, for this intense curiosity about the man whose French novels smelled like Emporium liquor. He didn’t have time for the nagging doubt at the pit of his stomach after being told </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s not what I’m looking for </span>
  </em>
  <span>twice. He didn’t want to fall only to be disappointed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, he struggled to shove the book into the bottom drawer like he’d planned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed and opened the cover. Thumbed through the pages and skimmed the foreign words. Just following an idle impulse, he flipped to the final pages. Second chapter of the eleventh part, the last line, where he knew the corresponding French words would be found. He remembered the thrum of the bar, that soft voice, the intent gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, tout ce que j’ai aimé! </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tout ce que...ah, fuck it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dropped onto his back and tossed the book onto the bed. He eyed it sidelong, annoyed again. Just a couple of pretty words. Just a phrase, and it pulled him back into the moment of the novel, when he’d read it the first time, experienced the tragic love, the horror and the heartache. His sister said he had a thing for literature geeks, but it was for the kind of men who could understand the whole beauty of a good book. Just something about the connection with words, worlds, the intertwined magic of empathy and creation…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Creation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a state of mind. The act of creation. Of bringing imagination to life. More than a suspension of disbelief, more than a technical skill. It was an immersion. A...a...a </span>
  <em>
    <span>faith</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat upright. Heart pounding, he hurried to his desk and grabbed the pebble from the table top. He hopped back onto the bed and sat the pebble in front of him. His fingertips lingered on its face, taking in the texture, the cool. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Tapestry. It was a blank page. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pebble—it was the temporary that could be unwritten. Rewritten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no technique to this. No hints, no shortcut. There was simply a state of mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo breathed deeply. He thought of Seth’s voice, echoing Quasimodo’s line. He thought of the tug in his heart when he spoke the translation, taking him back to the first time he read that novel. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>moment. When he lived in the craft of someone else’s imagination. When his heart felt the words as if what they described was real. That was magic. That was the same magic the wardens practiced, only without the manipulation of the Tapestry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immersion and faith. Openness, belief, a state of mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, the pebble cracked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo exhaled a laugh. It was not what he’d intended, but for once—for once, without adrenaline and fear, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. What had Blue said? If his conceptualization was flawed, his reality would be worse than flawed. So he hadn’t envisioned the right outcome properly. But he had invoked the weaves of the Tapestry—he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>made the connection</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He’d done it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried it again. Again. Again. Sunday became Monday, and the hours ticked toward four. By the time his alarm went off, he had not rested a blink. On the contrary, excitement quickened his blood. He inhaled a breakfast and went to the usual east tower, hoping to see Blue again. Blue did not show up until Thursday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On Thursday, Cleo was childishly delighted to see the crow on the windowsill. He’d no sooner took two steps into the room when, as before, everything warped into the manor room with the pavilion and garden beyond. Blue adopted his human form, wearing an earthly collared shirt and silk pants. He watched Cleo with amusement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I trust you’ve made progress?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo fished the pebble out of his pocket. Still grinning, he tossed it into the air. It didn’t land back in his palm. Instead, it slowed as though time had paused. With a flick of his fingers—he’d found gestures of direction eased manipulation—the pebble took an orbit around his body. Two circles. Blue looked pleased. On the third, Blue flicked his own finger and the pebble tugged away from Cleo, into his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue tossed the pebble in his palm and said, “I’ll be keeping this now. Until you can take it back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took it as a challenge. His eyes fell to the pebble as it rose midair. He attempted to tug it back. Nothing happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue said, “Between two collisions of magic, the stronger concept will win. Battle of the minds, you see. Now come sit. You’ve broken the first barrier. Let’s move onto the next lesson.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sat on the cushion before the tea table. Blue took the opposite seat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been attending the combat sessions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” He fished out his small notepad and flipped open the cover. “I jotted down some questions I was hoping you could answer…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He handed over the notepad. Blue skimmed the first three pages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. We’ll address the essential ones in due time. As for the rest, you can figure them out yourself with some experimentation. This one here, about healing lethal wounds? You’re right to surmise that it’s similar to bloodloss. Physically, if you make contact with a human body and fuse your vessel with theirs, you can patch up any tears and holes. But you can’t restore their spirit if it’s already too far gone.” He handed the notepad back. “Now, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, the trained combatants can maintain spells in the midst of battle. Your mind must be able to compartmentalize. Your conceptualization must be isolated and firm in the face of all distractions. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>is the next phase of your training. Lay out your palm.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Show me fire.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. He’d been preoccupied with the pebble. Fire...that wasn’t something he’d tried yet. But he had managed it with Breuston’s horror, so surely he could do it again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He concentrated. Fell into the appropriate state of mind. Envisioned a flame in his palm. Not just the look, but the heat, the smell, the movement, the corrosion…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A small tongue flickered to life. He grinned, and soon the tongue became a full-bodied, proper flame. The warmth of it licked along his skin. The tendrils danced, lifelike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue chuckled. “Twelve seconds. Your enemies would have you dead in half that time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo peered up and frowned. As soon as he opened his mouth to retort, the flame vanished. “I—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, and there goes your concentration.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo huffed. “Yes, well, I did warn you not to set your expectations so high.” He glanced back at his palm again and willed the fire back. Still took about eight seconds. “There,” he murmured, only to prove he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>say something while keeping the flame. He doubted he could actually hold a conversation, though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep that going for ten minutes,” said Blue. “Nod if you heard me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo heard a smile in Blue’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds later, Blue stood up. Cleo, startled by the motion, nearly lost his fire. He quickly reined back his concentration, half-listening while Blue paced and spoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you can imagine, Tapestral manipulation varies in degree and difficulty. The Order has long since categorized the forms into five tiers, in general order of difficulty. The first is basic manipulation—the modification of existing, non-living objects. Levitating the rock, for example. Simple transmutation and enchantments too. Basic. The second tier is the creation of non-living objects. Weapons, so forth. As I’ve said before, all creation magic is temporary, limited to the consciousness control of the mage. So you could not create anything permanent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Questions tugged at Cleo’s tongue. But he was afraid to speak, for fear of losing the fire. Thankfully, Blue addressed at least one of them next. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had a note in your book about the creation of sustenance, food and drink. Yes, it’s possible to create alcohol, and you could drink it with the same enjoyment of taste if you envision as much. But it will not process in your body like real alcohol unless you conceptualize even that. And </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> is third tier manipulation—the manipulation of living beings, including the self. Enhancement, healing, body modifications.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The fourth tier, as you might logically imagine, is the </span>
  <em>
    <span>creation </span>
  </em>
  <span>of living beings. You cannot will a spirit into existence, but if your concept is clear enough, you can conjure the mimic of a spirit. Temporary shadows, creatures, the like. Specialized mages can invoke a combination of third and fourth tier magic and create semi-extensions of the self—scouting birds, for example. But that takes decades of dedicated training, often to the detriment of other forms of magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue faced Cleo, who was still staring at his fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now tell me, Cleo. Under which tier does that flame in your hand fall?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo groaned quietly. He was having enough trouble maintaining the flame while listening. Now he had to think and formulate an answer? Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nonliving object,” he managed. “Should be second tier, but...ah, fuck.” His fire had begun to fade. He pulled it back to life, then took a deep breath. “Feels alive. Fourth. Maybe mix.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good,” said Blue. “You’re correct. Fire is a unique non-living concept in that its form and responsive nature mimic life. It’s not quite as challenging as true fourth tier manipulation though, so in terms of pure difficulty, it reaches about third tier.” Blue sat across the table again. “Most mages struggle for years to achieve second tier. Most mages never advance beyond third tier. So in terms of meeting expectations, Cleo? You’re doing just fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He made a noncommittal noise. “What’s fifth tier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue leaned back. “Ah. The forbidden territory. A slip up here will cost you your life. The fifth tier is full transfiguration, of the self and of the field.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fire flickered again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The crow?” said Cleo. “And this place.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely. Fifth tier manipulation is not mere modification of the vessel or of the environment. It is recrafting the vessel or the space itself. Should it collapse improperly, you and I might both vanish from the earth.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fire fizzled out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” muttered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue tsked. “Compartmentalize, Cleo. If you lose your concentration in the midst of battle, you will lose your life. Now, fire, again. We’ll reset the timer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t there an easier way to do this?” said Cleo. “During the combat sessions, the fighters, I heard them chanting spell words right before they cast their spells. They are spell words, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue waved a hand. “Crutches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Crutches?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Language can be a tool for us mages. Think of the English you speak. Words trigger thoughts, emotions, sensations. You hear the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>fire </span>
  </em>
  <span>and you can feel the heat on your skin. But you wouldn’t just shout fire and expect a fire to appear—that possibility is not embedded in your psyche. Saying the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>fire </span>
  </em>
  <span>does not invoke the Tapestral channel.” Blue raised an eyebrow at Cleo’s expression. “I see you understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Order created a new language, no?” said Cleo. “One that helps mages psychologically reorient. Associate words with concepts with magic. One that facilitates conceptualization and connection at the same time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Precisely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds very useful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, for those who struggle with instant conceptualization. But what are you going to do when you don’t know the words for what you want to create? How would you describe a place like this?” Blue gestured about the room. “Give a speech on the details? No. The </span>
  <em>
    <span>magus litani </span>
  </em>
  <span>works for those who accept the practical limitations. You, Cleo? You are capable of so much more. You will not rely on words as crutches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did not know what to make of that. On one hand, the practical ease of a magic language seemed enough for his own goals—protect his family. On the other hand, the limitless possibility of untethered magic...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long did it take you to master your magic?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Master? One ‘masters’ their magic in a sense when they are able to connect and conceive in the blink of an eye. For me, I would say about three months. But my circumstances were different from yours. My sister and I…” Blue paused. “My sister and I, we had no guiding hand. We only had each other and difficult lives to navigate. But if we </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>had the same opportunities you do now, it would have taken us only a few weeks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A prodigal anomaly. It takes most mages at least half a year. Anyway, Cleo—one can also ‘master’ magic in the sense of maintaining a concept in challenging circumstances. That takes longer. That takes first-hand experience. And then, one can ‘master’ magic in the sense of achieving fifth tier manipulation. But if that is your definition of ‘master,’ then nearly every mage in the world is a mere novice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you expecting me to be able to do it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for many years, no. But your primary numbers match those who’ve managed it before. So I would say you have the capacity. First, though...fire. Ten minutes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo obeyed. For the next two hours, Blue lectured him on the magical world while he maintained the fire in his palm in intervals of ten minutes. He was excused for lunch and returned a half hour later to resume the lesson. A few minutes before two, a buzzing interrupted Blue. A call from his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue addressed the caller without so much as a flicker in their environment. The string music went on. The breeze was crisp. The scent of tea fumed from the pot, and the leaves beyond the window stirred. How the man’s mind was able to conceive and maintain all these details, to do so despite their conversation and the interruption—it was beyond Cleo. He had the capacity for this too? Seemed damn near impossible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds later, Blue tucked his phone away and excused himself for the day. Some emergency situation in Glasgow, apparently. He gave Cleo some further instructions for the week, and then the manor became the stone tower, and the man became the crow, vanishing again from sight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Days passed. In private, Cleo tried to use magic whenever possible—moving the toothbrush without touching the stick, washing with conjured water, cooking with conjured fire. At first it took him hours to get anything done, but by Friday, he could fry eggs that didn’t burn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Friday, he also got his first paycheck from the Institute—a nice and hefty two grand. He also found an additional two point five transfer from Christopher Carrasquillo, the half from the commission he’d promised. Recalling that he still owed the man a drink, he tried giving him another call. No answer. He made a note to ask Blue or the others in Morpheus about Christopher. Just to check if he was okay. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saturday, Dani had wrapped up classes and was in the limbo before exams began. Cleo budgeted out his income, which had sounded like a lot at the time, but didn’t look like much after he’d started dumping some into his siblings’ college savings. Still, they weren’t paying rent, which would have been their greatest expense. He chunked out a couple hundred for the day and decided to take his siblings shopping. Dani needed a study break and a nice outfit for her summer internship, and Jules could use a suit for college next year. Shuri had been asking for a new backpack for months.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They ended up splitting in the mall, with the girls heading off to their side while Cleo helped Jules pick out a suit. His brother was as silent and as moody as usual, but at least he was no longer complaining about where the money was coming from. He had opinions about the clothes that Cleo handed him, and that was a good sign. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They found a private spot in the fitting room. Jules vanished behind the door to try on his first suit. When he walked out a few minutes later, Cleo grinned from ear to ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s this New York banker? Damn, Jules, I barely recognize you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules grumbled and pulled at his suit collar. “S’not my style.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It looks good on you. Really. Didn’t know my brother could be so handsome.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules turned away, half his back to Cleo. His ears looked a little pink. “Gonna try on the next one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He vanished behind the door again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two more outfits in, Cleo asked about another thing that’s been on his mind. “You made a decision about college yet? Deposit deadline’s today, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know,” Jules said from behind the door. “Haven’t really thought about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. “No? Going to pick out of a hat a minute before midnight, or something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Jules said again, a little more frustrated. “Maybe more school just isn’t for me. I’m not like you and Dani, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused, thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” he said eventually. “But I’m not going to lie, Jules. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>hard </span>
  </em>
  <span>making it out here without a college degree. It’s going to get even harder when we outsource these kinds of jobs to machines. This world we live in? Doesn’t really give a shit what’s for you and what isn’t. You gotta play by its rules if you want to live a comfortable life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules shoved the door open, emerging in a half-buttoned shirt. “Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>being comfortable. I don’t need a fucking luxury apartment and a pair of shoes for every day of the week.” He tugged off his suit jacket. “Don’t need </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>shit either. I just need…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trailed off. He closed his mouth and looked away from Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jules?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” muttered Jules. He tossed the suit jacket on the floor. “What’s the point in dumping two hundred on something I’m not even going to use?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo walked over and knelt to pick up the jacket. He looked up and caught Jules’s guilty gaze, quickly averted as his brother muttered, “You’re wasting your time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo reached for his brother’s hand and placed the jacket back over his arm. He said gently, “I don’t want you to write off college, Jules. You’ve already applied. You’ve got seats waiting. At least give it a try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A try? The fucking tuition—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this about the money? Is that it? We have the money, Jules. We will.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want you to—” He seemed to struggle with the words. “You’re working your ass off for someone who’s worth shit. Okay? I’m not Dani, I’m not Shuri, I’m not </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Christ, Jules.” Cleo pulled his brother into a hug. Jules fell quiet. “You’re breaking my heart. Of </span>
  <em>
    <span>course </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re not us. You’re Julian Sullivan. And you’re worth the fucking world to me. I don’t care what you end up doing with your degree. I don’t care what you do with this suit. But I want you to have it. I want you to have the option, okay?” He pulled back and cupped his brother’s face. “Okay? Take it for me. Because if I can’t even give you that much, then Jules, what am I doing all of this for?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules looked like he was going to cry. Was this what everything had been about? All that quiet distant—the insecurity, the guilt…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down the fitting room corridor, someone whistled and called, “This ain’t a bedroom!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules tore away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked over his shoulder and glared. “Fuck off!” He turned back to his brother. “Come on. Let’s pick out your favorite. Then we can go home and talk out your deposit options. Okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules nodded. Cleo smiled. He felt closer to his brother than he had in a long time. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for the kudos! Sorry for the delay--just started the semester and have been swamped, so I haven't been able to write new chapters. Fortunately most of this story is already written, but I just had time this weekend to give this chapter (and the next) a quick edit...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Friday | May 7, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Friday afternoon—Mediterranean time—Cleo found himself in the central building of the Institute. Blue, who had stopped by for lessons Tuesday, had instructed him to attend the institutional High-Grade Commission Debriefs, or what was more commonly known as Debrief. It was a weekly session open to wardens and apprentices, which overviewed recent exorcisms and detainments Grade B and above. Sometimes they had footage. Usually, said Blue, it was just a recounting of the reports plus a Q&amp;A session with the wardens involved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo went with Bax and Natasha from the Bones squad. It just so happened that he ran into them at lunch, and the two were already planning to head over anyway. Bax spent most of the walk talking about the last time his whole squad was on session—about a month ago, for a Grade A conglomerate. A calamity. It didn’t sound quite as calamitous as Cleo had been expecting, so Natasha cleared it up after Bax was done with the recount. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>minor </span>
  </em>
  <span>calamity,” she said. “There are subgrades within the big grades too. We’re not top enough to take on the high end A-Grades, the major calamities. But the minor ones? Yeah, we do okay with.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Walk me through the grades?” said Cleo. “I don’t know much about them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” said Bax. “So we’ve got six of ‘em total. You start down low with the E Grades. Commission’s cheap, $500. Those are harmless ghosts. Usually, we don’t even need to bother ‘cus they’ll pass on their own, but if you get too many lingering ghosts in one place, there’s a chance they might conglomerate into a big horror. A calamity. So we send out apprentices to clean those up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s that work?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boring stuff, really. It’s a lot of detective work. You figure out whose ghost it is, what it’s attached to, so on. You find a vessel that it has spiritual connection with. Something it can bind to. That’s where things might get a little lively, ‘cus you give a spirit a physical form, and it can get a little naughty. But ghosts usually aren’t malicious enough to do serious damage. So, anyway, you break the vessel, and it passes on pretty quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s one thing I don’t get,” said Cleo. “Ghosts are human spirits that linger in the divide between the secular world and the Tapestry, right? And horrors are ghosts that have enough malicious energy to latch onto a physical vessel. But if you destroy the vessel, that still leaves the spirit. Wouldn’t it just go back to lingering in the divide?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” said Bax. “Your physical vessel defines your connection with the secular world. Destroy it once—that’s death—and your connection weakens. It takes serious energy to cling on. Destroy it twice? Ghosts are goners. Have a happy next life in the beyond. Horrors—they usually pass too, or become ghosts without the energy to reattach.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There </span>
  <em>
    <span>are </span>
  </em>
  <span>special situations,” said Natasha. “A horror who’s been around for a time, something’s that cultivated new connections with the secular world, those might take a few cycles of exorcisms to clean up. Usually you see those with high level B Grades and above.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Back up a bit,” said Cleo. “What’s D and C?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“D Grades are minor horrors,” said Bax. “They’re nuisances at best. Poltergeists. C Grades are common horrors. They can do a little more than moving around objects and making scary noises. Usually more aggressive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher had said that Breuston was a C-Grade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>B </span>
  </em>
  <span>Grades aren’t the same kinda B as your report card,” said Natasha. “B Grades are </span>
  <em>
    <span>powerful </span>
  </em>
  <span>horrors. Same level as a fresh warlock. They’ve got intelligence, usually up to tier three magic. And then there’s A Grade, for calamities and experienced warlocks—about the same as a top class warden, except with a shit ton more spiritual reserves.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said there are six grades total?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm,” said Natasha. “So there’s also S Grade. That’s for like, god-tier calamities and warlocks. They’re around. You’ll hear about them. But we don’t mess with them, for the most part, unless they’re actively doing serious damage. Then we send in a fucking battalion and lose about half before we maybe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> land a dent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, shit’s right. But nah, we can afford to be a little optimistic these days. Got a couple of wardens from the Institute who are god-tier themselves. Anyway, know you’ve got questions, but Debrief’s right around the corner. Got some real pricks on the platform today, so we’re just gonna hang out in the back corner and try not to vomit, okay?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They rounded the corner. Bax pulled open the nearest double doors and gestured for Natasha to go on ahead. Cleo followed behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They entered a large, round assembly hall. The lights had been dimmed, so all was dark except for the central platform at the base of the half-circle. A projected screen illuminated the back wall—two images of a woman beside a slate of text. Biographical data. A young man, maybe Cleo’s age, with ash blond hair knotted in a bun was speaking in a bored voice. He seemed to be recounting an investigatory phase. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sat with Bax and Natasha in the back corner. No one paid them mind. Maybe about a hundred bodies filled the auditorium at the moment—from what Cleo could make out in the dim light, over half were in uniform, the young man on the stage included. A few were older, more casually dressed. One fellow in the back was munching on a burger in a tanktop and sweatpants.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down below, the screen image changed to a new block of text. Mission report. B Grade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo leaned over toward Natasha. “Who’s the speaker?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted softly. “That’s the prick I was talking about. Vincenzio-fucking-Marchesi. He’s a legacy brat from Apollo. Thinks he’s a bigshot ‘cus his daddy’s a bigshot, so he does all his missions solo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you needed to be a senior warden to take high-grade missions solo. Is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah. He’s still green. But he’s racked up enough points to get a special waiver for solo B-Grade missions. He’s gunning for the solo A-Grades. Out to fucking get himself killed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bax tapped his knuckles against Cleo’s shoulder. “One thing you gotta understand here, Sullivan—this whole line of work is about the prestige. The renown. You come up with a system like this where shit is ranked like some game and the bad guys are graded on levels, you’re capitalizing on the human drive to climb to the tippity top. Everybody comes in thinking they can be something big. Nat and I are no exception. Sure, it’s nice to save a few lives on the way, but at the end of the day? At the end of the day, it’s about being the legend on everyone’s lips.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo watched Vincenzio Marchesi walk across the platform, narrating his version of the warlock detainment. Ambition—he’d had it once too, back when he could still afford to have it. Now he had Houses of the Institute fighting over him, squads like the Bones wanting his good graces. And no doubt, he felt that drive that Bax was talking about flicker deep inside him, true as human nature. He wanted to be able to do what Blue could do. But not for the recognition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched Vincenzio Marchesi and he recalled his mother on her deathbed, his baby sister silent in his arms, trying to stay strong. Dani struggling every night to be at the top of her class, not so that she could brag about it, but so that she could take the burden off of Cleo one day. Jules, on the verge of tears in that fitting room. Life wasn’t about being better than everyone around you. It was about being the best that you could be for the sake of everyone around you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi finished his mission review. He fielded a few quick questions—not many, considering the target was a B Grade fresh warlock. Someone did ask about potential ties to the Souldancers, which, from what Cleo could understand, was some sort of underground warlock society. Marchesi said there was none he could find, and the session moved on to the next debrief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi left the stage and exited toward the side door. The next group took the podium to discuss an A Grade calamity in South Sudan. Apparently dealing with the secular hostility had nearly been as bad as handling the horror—nearly. The hit happened over the weekend. One member of the group was still recovering in the hospital.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a proper calamity,” said Natasha, more sober than she had been. “Not like the minor one we hit.” She nodded toward the stage. “Those guys down there? Two of ‘em are senior status.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many calamities does the Institute deal with weekly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A Graders, you mean? Maybe one or two. Sometimes none. B Grades are a lot more common—we get anywhere from five to twenty of those a week, so you’re only seeing the notable ones in Debrief. C Grades? Those come by the pretty dozens.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enough to keep everyone busy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, but honestly, most of it’s grunt work with the Ds and Es. There’s some fight over the top missions if you’re not high senior status, so what you gotta do is submit an app with the Board. The Commission Board. They pick out the most suitable group and give you the go-ahead. Usually something of a first-come, first-serve sorta deal.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hummed. A couple seconds passed. “What if you don’t want to hunt these calamities and warlocks and horrors? The Institute’s got to have other openings, right? Administration? Medical? Research and development?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure it does. But you’re seriously interested in that dull shit?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I find research pretty interesting.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel Natasha and Bax giving him a long, judging look in the dark. He heard Natasha take a breath, on the verge of responding, when the nearest door on Bax’s side opened. He turned around. Bax looked over his shoulder. It was Vincenzio Marchesi, probably returned from a trip to the bathroom or something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, fucker,” Natasha muttered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi glanced over. Didn’t seem to care. He sat in the far aisle seat, six chairs down from the trio.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” said Natasha. She turned her attention back to Cleo. “Think you’re gonna have to jump through some hoops before Morph lets you get away with sitting behind a desk all day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Research isn’t always a desk job,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Point is, House head dumped an assload of assets to bid you in for the House. Straight out from under the Sunboys’ and the Krats’ and everyone else’s noses. You think they did that ‘cus they want you to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>research</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Hell no. They want you scoring points, boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” said Bax. “You can bet your balls that your trainer ain’t sending you to Debrief to do research. She’s prepping you for the next gig. She’s probably setting you up for low-grade as we speak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know. He hasn’t gotten deep into exorcism yet. We’re still covering basics.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He?” said Natasha. “I thought you were with Yisroel Jostad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I haven’t seen her for a while.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then who’s training you?” said Bax. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Blue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bax and Natasha glanced at each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bax said, “Who the fuck’s Blue?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what he told me to call him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t have a Blue in House Morpheus,” said Natasha. “I’d know. I know everyone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I figured it was an alias. He doesn’t look like a Blue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s he look like?” said Natasha.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh, he’s kind of like a little old man that hasn’t gotten to the withering and wrinkling phase yet. Got two different colored eyes, one brown and one yellow. And he’s usually dressed in...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stopped. Natasha had jerked upright. She looked at Bax. She looked at Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy fuck. No </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know him,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck! Are you shitting us right now?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down a couple rows, a pair of eyes turned at the disruption. Cleo smiled at them apologetically and they returned their attention to the stage. He glanced between Natasha and Bax next. Past Bax, Marchesi was staring. Hard. Cleo scratched his head and pretended he hadn’t made eye contact. He kept his voice to a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m not. I take it he’s a big deal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bax let out a shocked chuckle. “Only the biggest deal at the Institute. That’s Maz Lan.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz-fucking-Lan!” hissed Natasha in a low whisper. “He’s like—fuck, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>the top dog at the Institute. The best fucking mage alive. Holy shit. I can’t even—</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fell into silence for a few seconds. Cleo wasn’t sure how to react. He figured Blue was pretty powerful, top of the game. But </span>
  <em>
    <span>the </span>
  </em>
  <span>top? That was something of a surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So is he not from House Morpheus?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Natasha. “I mean, yes, he is. And back when he was scoring, our House used to dominate the Council. But he hasn’t touched a commission in years. Hell, people barely see him around these days. But—you sure it was him? He’s really back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know. You tell me.” Cleo paused. “He did turn into a crow and change the tower into a garden.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another pause. Bax whispered a low, drawn-out </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he’s looking for a successor,” Bax said eventually. “Old man’s getting old. Maybe he doesn’t want to deal with all the whipped up wardens and wants to mould a fresh kid. But damn, Sullivan. You must be something else.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...really don’t think I’m successor material.” He paused. “You said he hasn’t been around? Hasn’t touched a commission in years? Then what has he been doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Apparently,” said Natasha, “he’s been hunting down the calamity that killed his sister.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His sister,” echoed Cleo. Now that he thought about it, Blue had mentioned a sister. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Iev Lan.” Bax shook his head. “Back in the day, those two were the legends of the Tapestral world. The Lan siblings...nothing could beat them. Nothing could </span>
  <em>
    <span>touch </span>
  </em>
  <span>them. I’m telling you—the Nigerian epidemic? The S Grade calamity collateral in the Gulf War? And the Swiss Doomsday Catastrophe that we missed by the skin of our teeth? We survived all that thanks to them. Our talk back there about the god-tiers? Yeah, the Lan duo was right up there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Iev Lan crossed paths with an ancient calamity. Got ‘involved’. The stories go all ways. Some say he bewitched her. Some say she bewitched him. Either way, he destroyed her soul. So Maz Lan’s been out after him ever since.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Destroyed her </span>
  <em>
    <span>soul</span>
  </em>
  <span>? He didn’t just kill her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah,” said Bax. “Don’t really know the details, but you hear it from the high-ups who were around Maz Lan the day it happened. She didn’t just die. The calamity did some fucked up shit with her spirit. Anyway, Maz Lan’s damn near cut all ties with the Institute since, and House Morpheus has been in the dust. So much for the House of Dreams.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused. He didn’t like the sound of this. He didn’t have a great impression of the Institute to begin with, though his feelings had been mostly neutral. But if Blue really was Maz Lan, and if he really had come back to train Cleo after all these absent years, he must have a motive. Hunting for a successor? Possible. Shaping him into a tool for a more sinister purpose? Also possible. All he knew was that men who stood at the top of the world with nothing but grief and vengeance keeping them in it...those men didn’t waste time on innocently tutoring children.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to think about something else. Anything else that wasn’t his own life under someone’s puppet strings. He settled on the strange tale of this Iev Lan and her ancient calamity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t know calamities could love. Or lust.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha shrugged. “Sure they can. Their psyches are essentially just dark, warped humans. And Iev Lan, I mean, they say she was, like, an eleven out of ten. And powerful, to boot. Anything with a straight dick would have wanted to roll with her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Honestly, didn’t know calamities had dicks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha snorted. “They have whatever the hell they want, boy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fell back into silence. The group on the platform cycled out twice more, and then at last, the debrief session ended. Cleo followed Bax out the way they had come. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three steps down the aisle, a hand gripped Cleo’s arm. Cleo hissed in pain.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The hell’s your problem?” said Bax.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned. Bax was speaking to Vincenzio Marchesi, owner of the offending hand. Marchesi ignored Bax and addressed Cleo. “Heard you talking earlier. What’s this about being Maz Lan’s successor?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said nothing of the sort,” said Cleo. He tried to rip back his arm. Marchesi was stronger, dug his grip deeper. Cleo winced. “Fuck, let go of me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eyes were starting to turn their way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz Lan’s back,” Marchesi said calmly, “and he’s back for you, is that it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, I’m new here, okay? I couldn’t tell you who’s who and why’s why, and honestly, I’m not—</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah</span>
  </em>
  <span>! Fuck, that hurts!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi released him. Natasha stood between them now, seeming to have pushed Cleo’s aggressor off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, asshole, pick on someone your own size,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi gazed down at Cleo. “This one’s not big enough? If he’s not talking out of his ass, then he’s got to be twice my size. Isn’t that right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, I’m just—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to see a familiar face. Gray eyes, cropped black hair, dressed in sweater and a pair of dark skinny jeans. It was the woman who barged in on Christopher’s office—what was her name? Yasha? Head of House Kratos. She definitely recognized Cleo. And Marchesi definitely recognized her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blond mage tamed his expression.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing serious, ma’am,” he said. “Had a bit of a curious itch. Was just about to challenge the new kid to a duel to scratch it out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A—what? No, look, I was literally just here to listen in on the session—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t matter,” said Marchesi. “A challenge is a challenge. Or haven’t your housemates filled you in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked at Natasha and Bax, both standing with their arms crossed and appearing pissed. Natasha turned to Cleo and responded, “Duels, yeah, they’re a thing. Didn’t mention it ‘cus most folk here aren’t assdicks to new apprentices.” She shot Marchesi a glare. “You drop ten points from your House if you lose or twenty if you back out from a challenge.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s fucked,” muttered Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whole idea is you don’t get to decide when you can dip from a fight with a horror or a warlock. Same goes for duels on the island when you’re not on House territory. But it’s whatever, Cleo. The dick’s not allowed to rechallenge you for another week if you turn him down now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Twenty points,” said Marchesi. “Morph’s pretty lacking already, isn’t it? Look, it’s not like I’m going after you. I just want to see what you’re made of.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was a lie if ever he heard one. Marchesi’s hard gaze was dripping aggression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, let’s just go,” said Natasha. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t escape Cleo’s attention that Bax was quiet. So was Yasha. A small crowd lingered in the auditorium now, eavesdropping. If he accepted, he’d probably have an audience. If he declined—if he chose his own skin over the honor of the House that’d bid him in—they’d write him off as the nobody. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>the clever choice. He didn’t come here to draw attention to himself. But a ten point difference between quitting and losing sounded pretty hefty to him when he used to make a measly eighteen dollars an hour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we supposed to do this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi gave him a cold smile, like he’d known Cleo would accept. Yeah, Cleo doubted anyone here with a half-hair’s sense of pride turned down a match, even if they knew they would lose. At least the challenger probably didn’t win anything from victory. That would make for bad incentives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Out front,” said Marchesi. “Arena’s free.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An arena. Great. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed a couple steps behind Marchesi, who fished out his phone and placed a call. Natasha and Bax kept to his side. A few others seemed to be coming along too. In his peripheral, he spotted Bax texting. Cleo had a bad feeling about it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bax, tell me you’re not…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax,” said Bax. “Just letting the squad know what’s up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The squad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bax grinned. Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You really don’t need to do this, Cleo,” said Natasha. They were out of earshot. “He’s just out to mess with you. The dickhead’s jealous, is all. You don’t have to give him the satisfaction.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Long as he’s not allowed to maim or kill me, think we’re good. I can take a beating.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For ten points? It’s not worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. For the goodwill of the House,” said Cleo. “If he goes through with this, it makes him a bully. It makes me the guy who tried. Besides, I’m new. I have a good excuse for losing, and he has nothing to gloat over if he wins. Cards stack against him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think he cares about gloating, Cleo. He’s calling a fucking medic. Think he wants to put you in your place. Think he wants to crush your spirit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He...can’t be that bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He absolutely can. He’s Vincenzio-fucking-Marchesi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, fuck.” He paused. “I guess maybe I’ll learn a thing or two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha gave him a quizzical look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was trying to keep his cool. By the time they exited the building, a whole horde of mages was tailing their lot. Some were already ahead of them, making for the stadium. A lot more than he’d expected. Were they all coming for his—duel? Surely they knew he was new. They couldn’t possibly expect him to win, or even to put on a half-decent show—not against a warden who was out there soloing B Grade warlocks and horrors. He saw Bax eyeing him in his peripheral—that guy had definitely been waiting for something like this. Bax had been trying to pry out what made Cleo ‘special’ since day one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God damn it. Expectations. He might as well just crush them all with a spectacular failure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed Marchesi through the stadium’s side entrance. Part of him hoped that there was another ongoing match, the star attraction of the afternoon. No such luck. When they emerged into the central field, the grassy arena was calm and bare. Actually, it looked like a group had been using it just moments ago, but they’d cleared off to the side of the field. One of the members nodded at Marchesi in recognition. Her gaze landed on Cleo, and then she smiled and turned to say something to the others. News traveled fast here.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s pulse rose quickly. His vision swam a little. He’d been thinking he would just try out a few defensive spells and lose, call it a day. Marchesi could have his worthless victory and Cleo could save his House ten points. But with the number of eyes on the field, the thought of being beaten to a pulp knotted his gut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe he could try to win?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it even possible?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d fought five times before in his life. Twice against his middle-school bullies. Once in a half-drunk college fit against a junior who’d laid hands on his friend. Once against Breuston in his office. Once against Breuston’s ghost at his house. He wouldn’t call himself a skilled combatant. His physical control was not great. His muscles were quite average. His size—well, enough said on that. Theoretically he could have the advantage with magic, but he’d never </span>
  <em>
    <span>fought </span>
  </em>
  <span>with magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had watched plenty of sessions though. He’d thought about fighting. Envisioned the strategy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was not the best place to put it into practice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” he called out to Marchesi. “Mind walking me through the rules? Not sure how it all works.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi looked over his shoulder. Cleo tried to focus on his opponent, not the dozens of faces piling around the arena edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not too many rules in a simple duel,” said Marchesi. “Goal’s to incapacitate your opponent for twenty seconds. No lethal moves, obviously. That’s grounds for contract termination. Other than that, yeah, you can break a few bones if a medic’s present.” He scanned the field edge and stopped on the left. He lifted a hand. A bored-looking man returned the gesture. “That’s ours. Called him over, you know, just in case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Relax, man. Just want to check you out is all. Not gonna hurt you too bad.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed. His throat was starting to ache from the dry nerves. He rubbed the back of his head and wondered if he should try to talk his way out of it now. Stupid thought. Everyone was already here—phones out and all, ready to film. Match might as well have already started. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, could he win it?</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Very funny, Cleo Sullivan. Ha fucking ha. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi shouted over the field. “Miss Hodzic! You mind playing ref?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo followed his gaze. Hodzic—that was Yasha. Of course she was here too. Where on earth was Christopher? Ah, hell, he’d forgotten to ask. Not a good time to be worrying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine,” said Yasha. “Signal’s a blue flare for start, red flare for cut. Don’t miss it, or I’m docking points.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes ma’am,” said Marchesi. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sullivan, you ready?” said Yasha. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could barely hear her through his pounding eardrums. Ready? What did that even mean? He quickly scanned the free area—wider than a football field, flat grass and earth—and pulled up a few ideas. Tried to find his connection—breathed, summoned a faint, invisible heat at his fingertips just to make sure he could manage it. Could he even maintain any spellwork mid-combat? Ah, time to find out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure.” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Here goes nothing.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“In three,” called Yasha. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nobody counted. But after approximately three seconds, a blue flare exploded in the sky just above the field. Cleo was still recovering from the startle of the sound and the light when Marchesi snapped his fingers—and a massive golden lion barreled down toward him. He didn’t have time to curse, didn’t have time to think—he just mimicked the defenses he’d seen in the Morpheus combat sessions and panickedly conjured a small gray wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Against a real lion, it’d be useless. But the magic lion slammed thoughtlessly into his wall and vanished like windswept mist. Cleo’s wall vanished in the same manner too—his focus was quickly usurped by Marchesi himself, who’d taken advantage of the distraction to advance. The man was suddenly four lunges away, impossibly fast. Body enhancement?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stepped back. A mantra echoed in his head: </span>
  <em>
    <span>restrain, restrain, restrain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A vivid image filled his mind. He quickly pulled together the full concept just before Marchesi reached him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pillar of bars rose out of the ground. Like a prison cell, they entrapped Marchesi in a circle. Marchesi stumbled back, and Cleo breathed again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maintain the concept. Twenty seconds. That’s all. That’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi gave him a chilling grin and grabbed the bars. With a bulge in his arm muscles, he pried two apart. The crowed roared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck…” whispered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His prison vanished. Marchesi outstretched an arm and conjured a glinting blade. Cleo’s heart skipped a beat. He did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to lose any limbs today. Panicking again, he sent out lash of fire to buy himself time. In the milliseconds he had, he skimmed through a dozen possibilities among the Tapestry’s infinite offering—but he was afraid to try them. Blue—Maz—had said if his conceptualization was flawed, his reality would be more than flawed. What if he injured someone? Killed someone? Himself?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His delay was too long. Marchesi brushed aside his fire like dusting aside a curtain. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Between two collisions of magic, the stronger concept will win. Battle of the minds. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Damn it. He didn’t have the experience.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi lunged at him and swung down his blade. That definitely looked like it could be a lethal strike. On instinct, Cleo lifted his hands and conjured a pipe to parry the blow—a construction pipe, the sort he was familiar with from work. Slightly embarrassing, but beyond the point. His arms crumpled anyway beneath the force of Marchesi’s strike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbled and fell, barely dodging the bladestrike. His next instinct was to conceive a shield around himself—but as soon as his palms made contact with the grass, vines snaked out and encircled his wrists. He panicked yet again. He glanced up at Marchesi, who had vanished his blade and was approaching with a triumphant grin. A string of curses filled Cleo’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew he could sever the vines. He could conjure blades, fire, anything—even fight Marchesi’s concept directly. But the look in Marchesi’s eyes was </span>
  <em>
    <span>predatory</span>
  </em>
  <span>, malicious—it scattered his concentration with fright. Natasha’s words drummed in his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t about making him lose. It was about putting him in his place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi kicked him in the gut. Cleo gasped in pain. He kicked him again—in the fucking crotch. Cleo’s vision swam and watered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” said Marchesi. “You can’t tell me this is all you’ve got. Maz Lan’s handpicked successor, and you can’t last two minutes in a fight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking told you</span>
  </em>
  <span>—fuck!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi kicked him again. The crowd began to complain. Cleo shut his eyes to stop the stars, and in the moment of blackness, felt a harsh hand grip his throat. The vines released his wrists. But his body could not move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another wave of panic ripped through him, this one deeper and colder than all the others. Territorial crossing. Impossible—except when two vessels moulded together. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marchesi’s fingers in his damn skin. The connection was two-way, but he didn’t know, he hadn’t been taught how to manipulate someone else’s vessel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi shifted his hold to the front of Cleo’s throat and lifted him up. His feet hovered above the ground. His hands stayed limp at his sides. He couldn’t breathe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rules are rules,” said Marchesi. “Twenty seconds of incapacitation calls the fight. So in nineteen, I’m going to let you go. We can keep playing. But until then…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi threw a punch at his gut. Something cracked inside his body. He screamed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not just him. Voices from the sidelines, shouting for Marchesi to calm it. But no one intervened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a rib,” said Marchesi. “Don’t worry, it’ll heal easy. All of them will.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going to do it again. Cleo heard it in his voice. He saw in through the slivers of his watering eyes, in the fist drawing back again, in that dark, envious, cold gaze. Prestige, said Bax. All that mattered to the players here. The view from the top. The glory of being a legend. Mighty enough to wreck a newcomer who was still learning how to tie his shoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was the culture the Institute condoned? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>These phones, those eyes, the bystanders while he was tortured?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anger filled Cleo’s gut. He didn’t give a damn about Marchesi and his stuffed-up pride, didn’t care about victory and points and proving anyone right or wrong. But he was not going to be a steppingstone. Not the whimpering lump in this pointless farce. He was better than that. They all were.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Time slowed. As Marchesi prepared his next hit, Cleo scanned the field behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He closed his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For one moment—one moment so short it was perhaps nonexistent—everything vanished. And then the crowd hushed. Gasped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo opened his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was standing four paces behind Marchesi’s dumbfounded body. His own screamed in agony. His head swam. He didn’t feel right. But adrenaline pumped through his veins, and the match was still on. He outstretched his hand just as Marchesi turned and spotted him, those vicious eyes as wide as saucers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Metal bands snapped around Marchesi’s wrists and ankles. Marchesi fell to his knees. With a snarl, he attempted to pull the bands apart as he had destroyed the prison bars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Titanium,” whispered Cleo. “Distilled forty-eight, alpha hex...agonal…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbled. Marchesi tried pulling again. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo held on for a few seconds longer. And then, without knowing whether or not he hit twenty seconds, he lost his grip and his consciousness.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Saturday | May 8, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cleo dreamed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knew it was a dream because the first thing he saw—or could remember seeing—was his own warped reflection. He stood in his old bathroom, his first bathroom, the one with a green tiled floor and old twentieth century decor on the walls. His mother’s family home. Here the glass was cracked, but not cracked enough to disturb his face, which was merely a featureless blur. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He touched the glass. It rippled like water. Blood fell from his fingertips. Bad memories made ghost aches—his fight with Marchesi, with Breuston, Breuston’s skeleton. Other bad memories too, ones that were not so clear. He winced and stepped away from the mirror, turning for the door instead. He hoped he would see his mother again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, the door opened to the tea room of Blue’s manor. The same string music played, but the notes were too flat or too sharp—eerie. Cleo knew he should not stray from the tea room, but the dream urged him to follow the sound. So he did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Up a set of stairs, much like that of his recent apartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Down a corridor, like House Morpheus’s portal hall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>To a door made of...void. An unsolid, galactic blackness. Except for the brass handle. Cleo’s pulse rose in his dream, drumming rhythms for the music beyond. He twisted the handle and stepped through the frame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an unfamiliar bedroom. A massive bed sat alone at the center, canopied and veiled in the same void-like black. The music came from within, where sat the outline of shadows. Cleo stepped closer, and inevitably, lifted the galactic silk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The music stopped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His eyes fell to a woman, who laid bare and unmoving above the mattress. Dark blood stained the sheets, dripped from her long black hair. Cleo could not see her face, but he had an impression of it—the sort that made no sense, the sort you got from dreams—that it was a very beautiful face. And though he knew she was dead, he could not help but reach for her. Just one touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Behind her, a shadow moved. That slow-creeping horror of nightmares enshrouded Cleo as he lifted his gaze. A hunchbacked creature, a monster without a face, placed its gargoyle claw in front of the woman’s naked body, barring Cleo from approach. A low, furious hiss filled the room. A warning before the strike. He knew he was about to die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Poisonous copper eyes pierced through the blackness. The creature leapt at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jolted awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unfamiliar ceiling swarmed his vision. His heart hammered and his skull throbbed. He looked around quickly—and landed eyes on an old man at his bedside. Blue. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue crossed his arms and peered down at Cleo. His expression was flat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I warned you, Cleo. Forcing an incomplete concept can have disastrous effects. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>when it’s on your own body.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. Memories came back quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. He’d—teleported.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am—am I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whole?” said Blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo gave him a meek, frightened look from the pillow. Blue peered down for a moment longer, tightened his lips, and then sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Now </span>
  </em>
  <span>you are. Foolish child. You had some mushed internal construct a few hours ago. If our medic were any less experienced, you’d be unconscious for days yet. Make a note to thank Dr. Arkling later, would you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” whispered Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re capable, Cleo. No one doubts that. But you’re not ready to take on fifth tier manipulation, and you will not attempt it again until I give you permission. Do you understand me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifth tier? No, I wasn’t trying to…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused. Processed the magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Teleportation,” said Blue, “is a form of fifth tier manipulation. It’s full transfiguration of space and body, if only for an instant. It may not require sustained concentration, but it requires total conceptualization of the highest complexity. Now tell me you understand me. No more attempts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I had known…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>know,” Blue said, voice sharp. “You knew what you were attempting would be dangerous. But you let your pride get the better of you and you risked it anyway. What would you have me do if you had died? Where would that leave your brother and sisters?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the mention of his family, Cleo withered. Shame hit him hard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I wasn’t thinking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, you weren’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A moment of quiet passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually he peered up at Blue again, who looked away before their gazes could meet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So...you’re Maz Lan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was hoping you would have more discretion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t bring it up. The others asked.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you were honest to a fault. Yes, I’m Maz. Don’t call me by my full name. They all do and it’s terribly annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo thought the admittance would unnerve him. But something about the moment softened him instead. Maybe the fact that this man had come to be by Cleo’s bedside. Maybe the angry, concerned lecture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will I...can I still continue my lessons with you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz faced him again. “If not with me, then with who? I doubt there’s anyone else among the Order that can handle the likes of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo made a face. “The likes of me? I made one bad judgment call and now I’m a special case?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One bad judgment call is all it takes to turn the world upside down. Don’t make light of small mistakes. Not in this line of work. This kind of life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded, quiet for another pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz, may I ask you something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz grunted. “You’re already asking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The others...they say you’ve been absent from the Institute. They say you’ve come back only to pick a successor. That you want </span>
  <em>
    <span>me </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be your successor. Is it true? Or is there something else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it matter?” said Maz. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course it—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I teach you what I can. That is the most I can do for any apprentice. Anyone I might hope to be my successor. And when all that is finished and I am lying in my grave, do I get to force my choices upon you? No. Think of yourself as my ‘successor’ if it makes you happy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I don’t expect you to carry out my will.” Maz sighed. “I’m getting old, Cleo. I’ve spent the last few decades chasing a vengeance, and it’s starting to look like I’ll go down empty and sad. At this point, I’m too old to have children, so I can’t pass down my genes. The next best thing I can do is pass down my knowledge. But what’s knowledge to someone who will not be able to use it? </span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>can, Cleo. So that’s why I’m here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo fell quiet for a moment. “Then, if I don’t want to use this knowledge to fight…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t escape that, Cleo. You’ve already caught the eye of a powerful entity. You need these skills to protect yourself. And once you’ve cultivated these skills, the Order will not let you out of its sight. It will find a way to draw you into the fray.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You haven’t worked for the Order for years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s incorrect. I’ve been hunting for a calamity to their benefit this entire time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To </span>
  <em>
    <span>their </span>
  </em>
  <span>benefit? I heard it was personal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz waved a hand. “Beside the point. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>can ignore the call to duty because my heart is old and dry. But you, Cleo? I see it in your eyes. When the Council comes calling, telling you there are families on the verge of death that only you can save, you will step in. Do you have a choice? Yes. Have you already made it? Yes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…I think I would still put my own family first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz watched him. Then: “You won’t know until the moment you are faced with the choice. But that is beyond us right now. In any case, it’s nearly midnight on the American east coast. You should be getting home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh—shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re just down the hall. Come. I’ll walk you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Maz did. A few stray eyes in the hall widened, but his was apparently the sort of legend that intimidated as much as it awed. No one approached them. Most made wide berth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they reached the portal doorway, Cleo suddenly remembered something. “I’ve been meaning to ask—are you familiar with Christopher Carrasquillo? Maybe know what he’s been up to lately? I’ve been trying to get in contact with him, but he hasn’t been answering the phone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Are you friends?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I owe him a coffee. He saved my life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Maz paused. “I heard he took a trip to Siberia for some extended private business. That boy can take care of himself, so I wouldn’t worry. But if you’d like to be sure, I can send Yisroel to track him down.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean—thank you. If you think he’s okay, there’s no need to trouble her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was still surprised that Maz had offered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s capable. And a good person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That last bit seemed somewhat irrelevant, but Cleo nodded anyway. “Thanks, Blue. Maz. For being patient with me. I’ll see you next week?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow,” said Maz. “We’ll move our meeting to 9 A.M. your time. Don’t be late.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded again and stepped through his portal home. Soon as the door had closed, he hurried into the hall, worried that his siblings would be frantic over his missed dinner and long absence. To his surprise, the lights in the hall were off. Jules’s snores could be heard through his door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checked his phone. Three missed calls past east coast dinner time. The fourth had been answered about three hours ago. Quick forty-second conversation. Someone had picked up for him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clutched the phone to his chest and slumped against the wall in relief. Disproportionate, subsuming relief. The thought that should something happen to him, someone out there was still watching out for his family. Even just to let them know not to worry. Was it Maz? The doctor? He wanted to thank them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slept well that night. No more nightmares. Boston’s Saturday morning came and he enjoyed it at leisure with his siblings, drove Shuri off to her friend’s day-long birthday party. Just before nine, he made his way to the usual east tower spot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz moved on to practical magic today. Maz returned Monday, then Wednesday, both times to work on basic magical combat. In the interim, Cleo did his best to navigate the onslaught at the House. Turns out he lost the match with Marchesi. Turns out no one really cared about the final call—the teleportation trick and metal bonds he pulled afterward were all anyone wanted to talk about. He’d experienced this sort of attention before. For a short time, everyone would want to be his friend. Then the undercurrent of admiration and jealousy would highlight every single wrong move he made, and if he didn’t watch his step, he’d have more enemies than allies. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thursday, Friday, Maz was present again. After going some time of seeing the man only once a week, Cleo wasn’t used to the constant presence. Friday afternoon, he asked if he could be excused from the mandatory House lunches and sessions. Just for a few days. Just to let the talk die down and to catch his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz shrugged, dusting off his sleeve after a hands-on lesson in self-enhancement sparring. “It’s up to you. But as far as escaping the peak heat goes, you don’t have much to worry about. I have an assignment for you that will occupy the bulk of your week.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“An assignment?” Cleo’s heart skipped a beat. “An </span>
  <em>
    <span>actual </span>
  </em>
  <span>Board assignment, or…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not giving you a research paper to write, if that is what you’re asking. Come, try the new moves one more time, and then I’ll tell you more.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did as he was told. He compelled added force to his motions to speed his pace and enhance his impact. After striking Maz’s palm a few times, the old man grunted in satisfaction. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have the magic down. But you’re missing the physical finesse. It’s not a terrible problem against weaker opponents, but you understand why I’m concerned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Have to protect the vessel, yeah? I’m clumsy. I know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to be a black belt martialist. But when your mind is preoccupied with a complex concept, your body needs to be able to protect itself. The deadliest enemies will come after both at the same time. Anyway, Cleo—it’s not something you will improve overnight. You may have a natural genius for Tapestral manipulation, but your physical condition is quite average.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, thanks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz smiled. “I’ll find you a trainer for it. In the meantime, you can rely on your mind for your next two assignments. Your first stop is Tianjin, China. We depart this afternoon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, slow down—I’m going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>China</span>
  </em>
  <span>? This afternoon? For how long?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“However long the mission takes. Expect to be gone for a few days. Pack yourself a suitcase and let your family know—ah, and don’t worry about money. We’ll cover the expenses. I’ll see you back here at midnight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, the garden sparring deck became the east tower again. Cleo couldn’t even come up with a coherent question before Maz flew off in his crow form again. He sighed and wiped the sweat off his brow, then went off to pack as ordered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Midnight in the Mediterranean was 6 P.M. in Boston. It gave Cleo time to have an early dinner with his family. Shuri squealed with excitement when he told them about his trip, asked for souvenirs and pictures. Dani and Jules shared a worried look. He assured them it would be safe—just a tutorial, and he’d be with the most capable mage in the Institute. He hugged them each goodnight, except for Jules, who had gone back to his distant mood. And then with his backpack of clothes and toiletries, he returned to the House.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found Maz lounging in the eastern study wing on the way to the tower. A couple of late-night apprentices were starstruck in the alcoves and couches. Only one pair, a young man and a young woman, seemed bold enough to strike up a conversation with him. Maz was explaining something about animal transmutation to them when he spotted Cleo. Cleo felt all eyes turn his way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz stopped talking and waved at Cleo’s uniform top. “No, no. Change out of that. It’ll make you a walking target.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. A moment later, one of the girls in an alcove called, “There’s a room over here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo thanked her and slipped into the private reading room. He switched out the uniform for a nondescript gray shirt. When he returned to the main study room, Maz was nowhere to be seen. The same girl who’d called about the changing room smiled at him and said, “He’s outside.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thanked her again. Sure enough, Maz was waiting right around the corner. The old man eyed his new look in approval and then held out a hand. “Your phone, please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo handed over his phone. In exchange, Maz placed a passport in his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll need it for traveling.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo checked the book. It looked legitimate. He didn’t ask how the Institute managed to process it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m flying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not from here,” said Maz, “but the assignment is a two-part set in two different locations within the country. The first is an exorcism in the north, and the second is a warlock detainment down south. The team will fill you in on the details.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The team?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz, who had finished tapping at Cleo’s phone, handed it back. “My number. And yes, team.” He started down the residential hall. “I’d rather not waste your time with low grades, but I couldn’t send you up against a high grade on your own. You’ll be tagging along with some friends. Experienced wardens, reliable. They can cover for any mistakes you make, so treat it as a proper learning experience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not coming?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t need me. And there are practical reasons.” They turned down the northside hall, along a row of residential portals that Cleo hadn’t been by yet. “As it happens, I’m a recognized face in some malicious circles. If any eyes stray, I don’t want them associating the two of us just yet. It would put you in unnecessary danger. That is part of why I wanted to be discrete about our trainings here, but there’s nothing to be done on that end, is there?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stopped before a northside portal door. Maz rapped his knuckles. Paused. Rapped again. A couple seconds later the door opened, revealing a sleek office room and middle-aged Asian man in his morning slacks. The man blinked at Maz and stepped quickly back. They must have told him someone was coming by, but apparently they didn’t tell him who.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy said something in Chinese. Maz responded in the same as he stepped inside. Cleo followed. The exchange lasted maybe a half minute before Maz nodded and gestured Cleo out the office door, into a small apartment living room. The other guy stared after them until they vanished into the public hall. Cleo assumed he was not part of the team—just a random Morpheus mage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, uh, should I expect my room to be a travel station in the future?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The portals are meant to be a communal convenience, yes. But unless it’s a sudden emergency, the House will message you about it in advance. And I believe we’ve three stations in New York, so unless there’s a particular occurrence in Massachusetts, you should be off the hook.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, not sure how I feel about strangers walking through my bedroom in the middle of the night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get used to it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I hope not.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They made their way down a cramped stairwell, which smelled of city must and mold. The structure, the air, the very feel—Cleo could feel the foreignness of it all. He’d never left America before, apart from his isolated trips to the Hecatian Island for training. He’d barely left Boston apart from the two national conventions he had attended for school. This Chinese apartment felt utterly surreal—more so when they emerged onto the parking driveway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused to take in the scene. Tall, stained buildings surrounded him. White-rail balconies hung strings of laundry. Foreign characters sprawled across signs. Above, the late morning sun was dull behind a polluted sky. A different world indeed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mi viejo</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked toward the booming masculine voice. A few steps away, a man and a woman stood near the wall, while another fellow sat on the sidewalk edge. The woman was smoking a joint, the haze ghostly about her tied platinum hair and sharp, hawkish features. She looked maybe to be in her thirties. The standing man, who had called out, was probably older: a tall, burly fellow who probably packed more muscle weight than four Cleos combined—clearly Hispanic, with a bald head, laugh lines, and a short, deliberate beard. This man spread open his arms as Maz approached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you’d kick the damn bucket before I got to see your face again!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Ricardo,” said Maz, taking up the offered embrace. “It’s good to see you too.” He pulled away and smiled at the woman. “Liesette, you look like you haven’t aged a day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman waved her cigarette and rolled her eyes. “I’m not sure if I should take that as a compliment. The last time you saw me, I was practically a kid. Speaking of which,” she nodded toward Cleo, “this is our kid? I’ve been dying to meet him since you called.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo Sullivan,” said Maz. “Cleo, meet Ricardo Medina-Mendez and Liesette Robida. And, if memory serves right, Kendi Buhle.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fellow on the sidewalk stood up. He was the youngest of the lot, maybe Cleo’s age, maybe a little older. He wore a head of Bantu knots over a striking dark face, upon which a pair of large eyes peered curiously at Cleo. He didn’t say anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo stuck his hand out first. “Well met, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hermano</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re a friend of the old man, then you’re family to us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks,” said Cleo. He meant it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So this is your first job, is it?” said Liesette. “Maz picked you a hot set. We have a real ghost story to work with in Tianjin, then dessert’s the pleasure of beating up a warlock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should warn you that the boy might be more trouble than the targets,” said Maz. “He’s shown a tendency to get ahead of himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo laughed. “Yeah, we heard about the T-P. Reminds you of a certain someone, don’t he, Maz?” Ricardo slapped Cleo on the shoulder, and Cleo nearly stumbled from the friendly force. “Don’t you worry. We’ll take care of him. You comin’ with us to the station?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I shouldn’t,” said Maz. “But we’ll catch up at the House after this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, we’d better, old man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo,” said Maz. Their eyes met. “I said they can cover your mistakes, but try not to make too many, okay? I’ll see you in a few days.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait—Maz. My siblings, could you...keep an eye on them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz hesitated, then smiled. “I’ll tell Yisroel to tab the area.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz lingered on him for a moment longer, then bade farewell to the others. Ricardo tapped Cleo’s shoulder again and nudged him toward the driveway exit. They had to catch a cab to the rail station, he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tianjin,” said Liesette, because Ricardo had just received a message on his phone. “We’re in Beijing right now. It’s a pretty quick ride though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo glanced over his shoulder at Maz’s parting figure. He chuckled to himself and shook his head, and then glanced at Cleo. He turned back to his phone and typed at it for a few seconds. He addressed Cleo after pocketing his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ever been in China before?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. This is my first time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then you’re in for a treat, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mano</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This place has got some killer food. And down where we’re headed after we clean up the ghost, we’re gonna see some real nice views. I’m talkin’ rolling plains and big ass mountains, movie-style.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s...not </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually </span>
  </em>
  <span>a ghost we’re after, is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo snorted. “Anything that ain’t a calamity’s just a pesky ‘lil ghost. Callin’ ‘em horrors gives ‘em too much credit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This one </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a little horrific though,” said Liesette. She hailed down a cab. Cleo watched in mild alarm as a car zipped through the streets without mind for traffic, barely missing a rushing biker. The biker went on as if it was an everyday occurrence. “We’ll chat more on the details when we’ve got a private moment.” She pulled open the side door of the stopped cab and winked at Cleo. “Hop in. Buckle up. It’ll be a bumpy ride.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Saturday | May 8, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ricardo took shotgun, managing to communicate with the driver in what sounded like very accented Chinese. Cleo found himself sitting next to the young fellow, who still had yet to speak. He offered a hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kendi, right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nn,” said the fellow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s not much of a talker,” said Liesette, closing the door behind her. The cab jolted onto the road again, whizzing lawlessly through the morning throng. “Understands us just fine, but he didn’t pick up English until the Institute found him Burkina Faso.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi nodded. Liesette pat his shoulder affectionately. “He’s a hell of a healer though. He’s patched us up through some S Grade damage. I mean guts rolling out of the stomach and everything. And if you’re wondering whose guts…” She pointed at Ricardo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did that happen?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We thought we were hittin’ a high grade calamity,” said Ricardo. “Turns out we were hittin’ a ghost nest. Wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>bad, to be honest with you, but just got taken by surprise. Fix up was smooth though—kid had me patched in a couple seconds, and yeah, we wiped them easy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know horrors nested together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Most of ‘em do like playin’ solo. But some of the smart ones that been around long enough, they pack up. Not like wolves. More like, I don’t know, snakes watchin’ each others tails or somethin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How smart do they get?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re about to see, buddy. The ghost we’ve got up in Tianjin, it’s a clever little fucker.”  </span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes of idle conversation later, they arrived at the bustling train station. The public clock read 7:23 A.M. With the next train for Tianjin departing at eight, they had time to pick up a quick breakfast. Cleo wasn’t hungry yet, but he wasn’t about to miss the chance to savor authentic Chinese food either. Ricardo picked up four boxes of takeout from a chain of nearby stores and they had a picnic at a station table. Between bites, Liesette debriefed the first mission. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horror they were after was a true B Grade—forceful and intelligent. Its activity had been first reported as a string of disappearances in the metropolitan Hedong District. Local police departments passed these kinds of unresolved cases onto their superiors, who filed them in a database that their governments arranged for Institute access. Most of the bigshots in international politics, the presidents and chancellors and prime ministers, knew a thing or two about the paranormal underpinnings of the world and relied on the Order to take care of them without asking too many questions—that was how the Andronicus Institute secured its global funds. But at the end of the day, that still left the Institute with the bulk of the investigative work. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Andronicus had an investigative division comprised of non-combative wardens and informed non-mages—usually the family of mages, or those affected by the paranormal, or those who otherwise had a stake in affairs. They specialized in preliminary sweeps to confirm the involvement of an entity and to identify its approximate grade. Once they filed the initial report, people like Ricardo and Liesette and Kendi took over. Sometimes the report revealed exactly what the entity was and how to find it. Other times, usually with the high grades, they had holes to fill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>According to this particular Institute report, the horror in question was likely responsible for at least forty vanishments over the course of the past nine months alone. That meant it was voracious—attempting, said Liesette, to reach calamity status. Cleo paused her there and pressed about what that meant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A horror can’t actually become a true calamity,” she said. “They’re two fundamentally different beings. But a horror </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>achieve calamity status—that is, it can get the same raw power if it consumes enough spiritual energy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And those would be Grade A?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette nodded and made air quotes with her fingers. “‘Calamities.’ It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. And they can be more hazardous than true calamities. That’s because true calamities don’t get hungry. Speaking of hungry...” She stuffed a bite of pork bun into her mouth before continuing. “True calamities form from a conglomeration of spirits that aren’t malicious enough to become horrors on their own, so while they become these warped, dark beings, they aren’t mindlessly fueled by hate or anger or lust or what have you. That means a good number of them, for a good period of time, won’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>anything. They just exist.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still dangerous, ‘course,” said Ricardo. “‘Cus when a real calamity </span>
  <em>
    <span>does </span>
  </em>
  <span>do shit, it’s big shit. And it’s usually smarter, darker shit than horror-calamities, ‘cus real calamities have got more human nature in ‘em. So we want to get rid of ‘em before they get the itch to act.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something about this sat wrong in Cleo’s gut. Before he could unravel his thoughts, Liesette continued. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your average horror acts out the malicious drive that kept its spirit around the same way animals eat and fuck. A spirit that was full of pain will lash out at what’s around it. Mindless destruction. A spirit that was full of hate might do worse. Sometimes they get specific with their targets. Most wreak havoc that leaves a blood trail. But our little friend here…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s deliberate,” said Cleo. “Discrete.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” said Liesette. “That’s why it’s a B Grade and not a C Grade. Horrors that </span>
  <em>
    <span>hunt </span>
  </em>
  <span>spiritual energy and do it in a way to avoid getting caught, they’re striving for power. Those are the ones that evolve from particular kinds of malice. Desire. Evil. You know, the really bad stuff. But that also means they’re easier to pin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She flipped to the next page of her datapad and pushed it to Cleo. It was a news article from last year. Mother arrested for the hack-and-slash murder of her nine-year-old son. Suspected responsible for the earlier, unresolved deaths of her husband and young twin daughters as well. The more he skimmed, the colder he felt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think it’s the boy,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette nodded. “Ghosts are usually the most active about a month after death, right after they latch onto a vessel. So I dug up the articles from the Hedong area. This one fits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He skimmed a few more lines, piecing it together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mother didn’t kill her husband and her daughters. She killed the boy in self-defense.” He looked up, feeling sick. “Fuck. So we’re dealing with a child psycho?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>used </span>
  </em>
  <span>to be a child psycho. It’s a lot worse now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How are we going to find him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>It, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cleo,” said Liesette. “But we can draw from its human instants. See, the thing about children is that they’ve yet to let go of the concept of </span>
  <em>
    <span>home</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo chuckled. Cleo looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You read us yet?” said the big man, grinning. He nodded at Kendi and Liesette. “He’s the bind. She’s the brains. And I’m the brawns. Powerhouse team if there ever was one. Shame there’s only one of our set, or Morph would be tops again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just wondering that,” said Cleo with a wry smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, you know, with Maz takin’ interest again, maybe the House is on the rise. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>can happen.” Ricardo pushed a box of buns his way. “You tried these yet? Call ‘em </span>
  <em>
    <span>baozi</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Could eat a boatload, and they’re cheap as straws. Go on, go on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed aside the disturbing thoughts from a moment ago and found his appetite again. Ten minutes later, they were on the bullet train to Tianjin. He remembered Shuri’s request and pulled out his phone to take a few photos, not caring that he looked two-hundred percent like an American tourist. Giddiness tingled under his skin as the train took off, the same sort of giddiness he’d felt practicing magic. He could almost forget that he was here on a ghost hunt—everything felt so </span>
  <em>
    <span>new</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Exciting. Traveling...that was an opportunity he’d written off after his mother died. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One day he’d bring Dani and Jules and Shuri too. He’d save up. Maybe as soon as next summer, a break for the holidays...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked around himself. Kendi had dozed off already, and Ricardo and Liesette were poring over the electronic drink catalogue on their generous superior-class table. They didn’t seem worried at all. Maz certainly hadn’t seemed worried. Maybe this whole business wasn’t as deadly as it seemed if he found the right team, mastered the right magic. Maybe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ride was quick, as promised. Forty minutes later, they arrived at the Tianjin station. From there, they took another cab to their hotel in Hedong. The ghost wasn’t likely to be active during the day, said Liesette. The density of human activity distorted its Tapestral access, weakened it. But they set up lookout around the target building anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a modest apartment in the city complex. The deceased child’s family had lived rather cramped in a two-bedroom. A new couple lived there now, according to the neighbors. No hauntings—their little horror was smart enough to let the inhabitants be. Liesette, who’d rented out a car from the station, parked them in the communal lot while Ricardo and Kendi went to go pick up snacks. They’d offered for Cleo to tag along—and he was certainly tempted to tour the new city—but he didn’t want to miss anything important. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette tuned in to a local music station. Cleo leaned forward in the backseat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got any idea what kind of vessel the spirit took up? Maz didn’t tell me much about how that works.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s why he sent you over to us.” Liesette kicked off her shoes and pulled up her legs to sit crossed in the driver’s seat. “Most spirits attach to something linked to their lives. The stronger the link, the more likely the vessel. It’s usually not a conscious choice unless the malicious energy is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>strong. But for the low grades, we see some haunted objects. Dolls are a favorite ‘cus they look human. I did once have a run in with a haunted painting, back in my apprentice days.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything goes, basically?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything goes. But since we’re dealing with a high grade that’s showcased some intent, it’s probably latched to something a little more convenient. Something that will let it move around, hide in plain sight. Protect itself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Like an animal. Or a person?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “Exactly. You’re pretty quick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can it possess a living animal though? A human?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That depends on how strong the horror is and how weak the living creature is. Most humans aren’t vulnerable to possession unless they’re on the verge of death, but lesser animals can be fair game. For a horror of this grade, I’d say it’s possible. But for a horror that’s already gobbled up at least forty spirits, well…” She threaded her fingers through her long platinum ponytail. “Let’s just say we could be looking for anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re talking transfiguration.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Our </span>
  </em>
  <span>tiers aren’t all linear in difficulty for horrors. Our tiers only really apply to mages. Warlocks have it easier because of their illicit connection with the Tapestry. Horrors and calamities even more so. They don’t need to worry about preserving bodily integrity and whatnot because their vessels don’t need to be functional, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>their conceptualization requirements aren’t as stringent. Most B Grades can transfigure themselves easily, as long as they have the reserves for it. Which our little buddy here clearly does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where does that leave us?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right here.” Liesette tapped the car wheel. “We’re just going to have to wait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no other way to hunt it down? Lures, traps...I don’t know, a magic scanner?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette chuckled. “This isn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>Ghostbusters</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cleo. Is your channel open?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, I can open it…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll get used to keeping your channel open with more practice,” said Liesette. “Once you do, you’ll have something of an enhanced sixth sense. You can sense energy spikes in the Tapestral weave—that’s magical activity. Or spiritual activity. Horrors are usually a constant disturbance in the weave, so even if our target isn’t doing anything, if it comes close enough, we’ll know. It goes both ways though, so don’t use any magic until we say so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. Got it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette looked at the rearview mirror again. Her gazed lingered. “Say, Cleo, this off-topic, but do you have a girlfriend, boyfriend waiting for you back at home?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scratched his cheek. “Just my family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grinned. “Yeah? And are you into ladies or lads? Either? Neither?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a typical conversation, Cleo probably would dodge the question. Homophobia hadn’t quite phased out of society. But Liesette seemed open enough. “I prefer men. Why do you ask?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, perfect. I’ve got a friend, back at the Institute. Young friend, your age. He’s been looking. And he’s a real looker himself. Think you might like him, and you seem like his type. Oh, here, I’ve got a picture.” She dug up her phone and flipped through it for a few seconds, then handed it to Cleo. “What do you say? How about I set you two up on a meet after this business?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the screen was the zoomed-up photo of a handsome fellow with curly dark tresses and cinnamon, coppery skin. Looked Indian, maybe. Or Middle-Eastern. Not bad at all—modelesque, in fact—but Cleo’s first thought was of Seth, whose skin and hair had similar hues. His pulse sped up inadvertently. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s he like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He likes to cook. Very family-type, down-to-earth, loves kids and dogs. He doesn’t get along with cats because he’s allergic, but he’ll still leave fish out for the strays after he picks out the bones.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He sounds like a good guy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah. He’s too good for most people. His last boyfriend broke his heart, and he’s been a bit withdrawn since. But you seem sweet, Cleo. The way you asked Maz to look after your family...yeah, I have a good feeling about you. So, what do you think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitated, glancing down at the photo again. He wasn’t looking for a partner, per se. He’d taken an interest in Seth because—well, because of pure attraction. But his family was always going to come first, and now that he thought about it, any fanciful involvement he had with Seth would probably have ended with a round or two in bed. Juggling home life and apprentice life and a relationship with an outsider would have been too much.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A warden, though…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He supposed he did miss being with another person. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He handed the phone back. “Yeah, sure. I’m interested.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great! Oh, man, Cleo, I have a really good feeling about this. Seriously.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled. They talked a little more about his prospective date, and soon were joined by Ricardo and Kendi. The morning turned to afternoon without an appearance by the horror. At two, Cleo was beginning to drift. Liesette noticed and walked him and Kendi back to the hotel, where she insisted they sleep until evening. That was when the horror was likely to be most active and most powerful. In the meantime, Ricardo kept an eye out in the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> Evening came. Half past seven, they grabbed takeout again and returned to the car. Ricardo reported nothing out of the ordinary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long before you usually get a read?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette swallowed a mouthful of noodles. “Depends on the nature of the horror. Some are active. Some are sluggish. Some are just careful. If we’re lucky, our little friend makes a move tonight. If we’re not, we could be around for a few days.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No need to worry,” said Ricardo, gesturing to his laptop. “Brought new movies, hours of ‘em. Got a genre, Cleo? How’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dead Boys Deal</span>
  </em>
  <span> sound? Maybe </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Umbrella Man </span>
  </em>
  <span>or </span>
  <em>
    <span>Kingkiller</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m down for anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo propped the screen up at the front of the car and started a film. Cleo checked his phone. The Institute set him up with an international plan not too long ago, so he could reach his family anywhere with service. It was around seven in the morning in Boston now, nice and early on a Saturday. He waited until their breakfast time to send their group chat a message and a photo of the city.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten hours and a few stretch-walks around the neighborhood later, the sun was coming up in Tianjin and Ricardo was snoring in the front seat. No sign of the horror. Liesette brushed it off, said it was common for a smart ghost to lay low for days at a time. She sent Ricardo and Kendi back to the hotel while Cleo took the morning shift with her. Past noon, they switched. Cleo slept with some odd dreams that he couldn’t quite remember.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At seven in the evening, Liesette and Cleo returned for a second full-group night watch. The hours ticked again. Come 2 A.M., Ricardo was already drifting off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned to Liesette, who was reading something on her datapad. “Is there any chance we have the wrong target? Wrong spot? Or any chance it knows we’re around?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s always a chance,” she said. “But I wouldn’t bank on it until we’ve spent a week loitering around with no results. This line of work requires patience, Cleo. Lots of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see that. I’m just worried…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That it’s off slurping up another poor soul while we’re watching movies in the car?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed. “Yeah, I guess. I know, I’m new. If there were a better way to do this, you guys would have thought of it already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re probably right about that,” said Liesette. She lifted her datapad screen. Cleo glimpsed an article—murder, dating back to last year. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m looking around for alternatives too. But nothing tops the one in front of us now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you need a second pair of eyes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah. I’ve always been a single pair, you know? Big goof over here, he acts like he doesn’t know how to read so he doesn’t need to do the ‘boring stuff’. Honestly, don’t know how he’d get by without me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you two…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope. He’s got a girl back home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo didn’t sense any jealousy from Liesette. “So how did you guys all meet?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Annual Games. You’ll get to experience for yourself in the winter. But, yeah, Cardo and I happened to be around the same entry entry. I’m a legacy and he’s an old crow. We got paired randomly for a team match, and we thought we had some chemistry. Then a couple years later, after we lost Mischa and Ryu, we went looking for a healer. And we got the best of the best.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi scratched his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to hear about Mischa and Ryu. Former teammates?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette nodded. She told him about them, shared a few more stories from the past. Eventually, she took him up on his offer for a new pair of eyes, sent his email a few links and logins to the district databases. He spent the next few hours reading through files and articles, finding, as Liesette said, nothing better than what was in front of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dawn crept over the city. Around seven, just after Ricardo and Kendi walked back to the hotel to rest, Cleo got a message from Dani’s phone. Shuri’s grammar, though, asking him what he was eating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smiled and sent her a photo of his last meal. Excusing himself from the car, he walked to a quiet spot to call home. His sister picked up after a half-ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cleo!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Shuri, what’s up? Getting ready for dinner?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dani’s cooking burger buns ‘cus yours looked delicious. Are you gonna bring snacks back? When are you coming back?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes and no idea.” He paced around the driveway. “Haven’t had a chance to shop around yet, but I’ll video chat you guys when our schedule eases up. Bring you around the store with me, give you a chance to pick. How’s that sound?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, yes! Can you put on your video now? I miss your face.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducked around the corner of the building and switched on the video function. The connection was weak, pixels blurred—but he grinned at the sight of his little sister’s toothy smile. “There you go. Missed your face too, kiddo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Is it morning over there</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It sure is. How was school today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Everybody wanted to see your photos! Even Francis started talking to me again. Oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t worry. I told them you’re in China ‘cus you’ve got tryouts as a jet pilot</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri beamed. Cleo laughed as he idly strolled. “Tryouts as a—oh, Shuri. But what’s this about Francis? You never told me she stopped talking to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, right. We had a fight over a boy. Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>that </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind of fight. She wanted to turn him over to the teacher for copying her homework. But friends don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That Cleo?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Dani appeared on the screen, holding a spatula. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Hey, little big brother. You surviving alright on the other side of the world?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Better than you’d think. I sit in the same spot all day and eat junk food and watch pirated films. It’s pretty great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What? Seriously?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously. Thinking it’ll pick up soon, but so far it’s just been—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused. Looked up. He could have sworn he heard a moan—not the pleasured kind. Muted, pained. A cry for help? He looked around. He’d wandered to the back of the apartment lot, not far from a set of broken, unkempt gates. Sound seemed to come from that direction. Past the gates was what appeared to a small vacant yard, with loose bricks and broken tires tossed off to the sides. Trash heaps and trash bins laid under an open shed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cleo? You okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it was. A thumping. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, got to go. I’ll call you back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ended the call and sent a quick text to Liesette as he approached the gate. Another distant thump past the trash heap. The gate seemed stuck. Easy to open with magic, but Liesette had warned him that horrors could sense the activity. He took a step back and threw his best kick. The gate budged slightly. He kicked again. It screeched and came unstuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slipped through the opening and walked toward the source of the thumps. He heard another moan, fainter. He ducked under the shadowed canopy of the shed, grabbed bags of trash and tossed them out of the way. The thumps came again, clearer now, from the large shoulder-high disposal bin tucked into the back of the shed. Cleo shoved opened the lid and grasped the edge, heading swimming the thick scent of rot and blood. His gut sank even before he peered inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bin was mostly empty. Old scrapes and mold padded the bottom, lumps that could not be made out in the dim light. But there, lying in a huddle, was the naked body of a young boy. No more than ten. Bound in </span>
  <em>
    <span>wire, </span>
  </em>
  <span>ankles and thighs and upper arms. Soaked in dried and fresh blood, lacerated, dotted with burn marks. But alive. Hazed eyes peered up at him beneath a wet matting of hair. And beneath both its elbows—stumps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cauterized stumps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Horror overswept Cleo. He needed to get the child out, to a hospital. Fuck, he just needed to get the child into his arms—something to ease the plainly nauseating fear and pain. He looked over his shoulder and shouted Liesette’s name. He crawled over the adjacent trash heap and swung his legs over the trash bin edge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, </span>
  <em>
    <span>no</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His feet hit the bin bottom. He looked out, saw Liesette running through the lot, her hand outstretched.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the bin lid slammed against his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cried out in pain and buckled his knees, blinking in the sudden darkness. He shoved at the lid—wouldn’t budge. He’d been sealed inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chilling giggle filled the blackness. It came from the direction of the injured boy. But not so close to the floor. Standing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo scrambled toward the opposite end of the bin, scrambled to get his mind into gear. The sound was too close, the smell was too </span>
  <em>
    <span>thick</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it was so damn cold—so much sudden terror—he couldn’t think straight. Somehow he managed a spark of firelight—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And glimpsed the looming, illuminated pupil of a bloody eye. Stained teeth grinned at him through cracked lips. He screamed. The fire went out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The giggle echoed again, and this time he felt the putrid breath of it over his face. He shoved his hands blindly forward—hit a cold, wet chest. Hands grasped his wrists. Hands that hadn’t existed just seconds ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck!” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fire, fire, fire</span>
  </em>
  <span>—! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire exploded between himself and the horror. The horror screeched and released him—only for an instant, and then with a vicious snarl, it dove through the fire and latched onto his shoulders. It opened its jaws at his face—and then Cleo tumbled backward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fell against a heap of trash bags. Heard the flap of fast wings. Light blinded his vision. Scrambling frantically back, he blinked the world into focus. The horror child was gone. The trash bin was gone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette skid to his side and grabbed his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo! Cleo, are you hurt?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he whispered, still in shock. He was shaking. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Where—where did it—did you—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slipped through my fingers,” said Liesette. “We’ll worry about it later. Are you okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down at his arms. Intact. He nodded numbly. “Think so.” He looked back at where he’d been trapped just a moment ago. A heap of black dust laid where the bin used to be. “The bin, you…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Decomposed it,” said Liesette. “What the hell were you thinking, Cleo? I didn’t get a great look, but that was a nine year old boy, wasn’t it? That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>exactly </span>
  </em>
  <span>what we’re after and you just—jumped into its trap?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I thought it was a victim.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette shook her head, appearing disappointed. He was slowly regaining his composure, his fright replaced with shame. He knew she was upset because she was worried about him, but that look still cut him to the bone. He lowered his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was just...the condition of his body, it looked like he’d been tortured. It had been tortured. And I thought—it was a boy, around the same age. Children get lonely. If—if he died like that, he’d probably become a horror. And I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You thought it was trying to make its own company,” said Liesette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sounded surprised. Cleo looked up to find her staring at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry. It was stupid. I should have…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, I’m just surprised you came with that at first glance.” She paused again, still staring. “Horrors don’t get lonely, though. And that horror </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>a child anymore. You know that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood up and offered Cleo a hand. Cleo let her pull him upright. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got to hand it to you, Cleo. Dumb as it was, most people would have let the self-preservation alone keep them out of that bin. You could stand to be a little less selfless in this line of work. But I guess the little freak knew that about you, didn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think it was deliberate about targeting me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe. Some horrors are advanced enough to sense the nature of living souls. Ours might have gotten a read on you and figured out just how to lure you in. If you hadn’t texted me, well. Maz would have probably bitten off our heads. Anyway...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She pulled out her phone and dialed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cardo? We made contact. Need you two downstairs </span>
  <em>
    <span>pronto</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She paused. “No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>direct </span>
  </em>
  <span>contact. It escaped.” Another pause. “Yeah, he’s alright. Just a little spooked. Okay, we’ll meet you at the entrance.” She tucked away her phone and addressed Cleo. “Let’s go grab the others.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He followed her back into the car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long do you think it was lurking around for?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” said Liesette. “We should have been able to feel its presence, but...shit. I think it’s learned how to camouflage among the weave.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They can do that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Warlocks and calamities can. Horrors that are near calamity status can manage it too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We still think it’s near calamity status? Not at?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It doesn’t make a difference,” said Liesette. “Our job is to take care of it either way. But I think if it were at calamity status, it would have tried to take the both of us out then and there. Wardens make great feed. It ran because it was scared. Probably.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or because it’s daylight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or because it’s daylight, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what’s our next move?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It knows we’re after it,” said Liesette. “There’s no point in staying around the apartment. But now that we’ve confirmed exactly where it came from, we have a few options. Number one on the list is his killer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His mother?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup. We’re making a trip to the city prison.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pulled into the hotel parkway. Ricardo and Kendi were waiting on the sidewalk. As soon as the two were in the car, Ricardo began an onslaught of questions. This was his sleeping hour, but he seemed as awake as ever—excited, even, to have a whiff of action. Cleo wondered what Ricardo would have done, packed in the dark with a maimed and bloody child ghoul. Probably could have finished the job right then and there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had a long way to go. Managing his fear—top priority. He couldn’t spell shit in that trash bin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He remembered to call back his sisters during the ride. He kept them off video this time, for fear that they’d see the bloodstains where the horror had grabbed him. Forty minutes later—Liesette got a bit lost and cursed several times over the unpredictable traffic—they arrived at the city penitentiary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stayed in the car. Ricardo went in alone, being their only Chinese speaker. A near hour later, he returned with a satisfied grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got it,” he announced.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s ‘it’?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Info, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mano</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Buckle up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drove to the city columbarium next, where the ashes of a Wang Jiming laid in a small urn aside long-withered flowers. It was the horror-child’s ashes. Back in the car, Ricardo handed the urn to Kendi, who tucked it away under his coat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are we doing with his ashes?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to summon him to us,” said Liesette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t know that was possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t easy,” said Liesette, “so we’re going to fill our stomachs first. Anyone have particular cravings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Meat,” said Ricardo. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Lots </span>
  </em>
  <span>of it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stopped by an inner city restaurant, the fancy sort that Cleo could never afford in the past. For once they dined at a proper table, and though the food looked incredible, Cleo struggled to find an appetite. The image of the brutalized boy, even if it was just a lure, still haunted him. Liesette packed a box to go for him, and just before noon, they returned to the hotel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The spirit must be summoned at night, when secular activity was diluted enough for the Tapestral spellwork to take. So they waited. Cleo tried to sleep. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evening came. At eight, he couldn’t lay in bed any longer and joined Kendi in front of another pirated thriller movie. They finished that movie and started another one. Just before one, they made their move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They returned to the horror’s apartment—or what was once the horror’s apartment. It was now inhabited by that couple. Second floor, far corner. Liesette spelled the doors open and they stepped inside. Cleo felt disturbed at the ease with which the mages broke into a sleeping couple’s home—more disturbed when they located the bedroom, where the half-dressed woman was tucked in the man’s arms, and Kendi worked his manipulation magic. He simply laid his palm on both sleepers for about a minute, and then he looked up and nodded. Neither would wake for hours, not even to an earthquake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are we exorcising it here?” said Cleo. “In this apartment?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the plan,” said Ricardo. “No grave like home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shouldn’t we move the civilians, then? In case of crossfire?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette shut the bedroom door and tapped it. “They’ll be fine. We’ll ward this door. Maz teach you about enchantments yet?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not much,” said Cleo. “He mentioned that it’s first tier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right,” said Liesette, “because enchantment is usually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>technically, </span>
  </em>
  <span>a modification of a non-living object. But the first-tier classification can be misleading. Pass me that marker on the desk.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo grabbed the marker on the living room desk and tossed it over. Liesette began to scrawl on the bedroom door. In the center of the living room, Ricardo and Kendi began shifting around furniture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eyes here, Cleo. Do you recognize these characters?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo walked over to Liesette. She was writing—drawing—a series of what appeared to be hieroglyphics. Not letters. Not pictures, but similar. Mechanized. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Cleo. “Runes?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have them in your house,” she said, “on the frame of your portal, around the building. The characters themselves have no power, but they help us ground our magical concept. Kind of like locking in our intent. That way, even when we’re not around, not thinking about the concept, the enchantment still stays. These will keep Tapestral distortion from trespassing. That means no ghosts. No horrors. No calamities, even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you conceptualize something like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not intuitive,” said Liesette. “It took our mages centuries to develop and it takes years to master. A technical skill, really, kind of like software engineering. You have to specialize to be able to pull off warding enchantment.” She pointed the back of the marker at Kendi. “Just like you have to specialize to be able to pull off his level of healing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These look like Egyptian hieroglyphs,” commented Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s because the concept of spellrunes originated in North Africa,” said Liesette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She walked him through a few characters and their meanings. When she was finished, she quieted and placed her palms on the door. A few concentrated minutes later, she released a breath. The markings became invisible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay,” said Liesette. “We’re ready to roll.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ready for this, Cleo?” said Ricardo, grinning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still not sure I understand what </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to remake the body,” said Ricardo. “That’s its original vessel, you know, so it’s got more pull than whatever it’s riding right now. Most ghosties bond to their original vessels if it’s around and in decent shape, but that’s not usually the case.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That made sense. Horrors took at least a month after death to latch onto a vessel. By that time, bodies would have been processed, moved, burned, cremated, rotted—the like. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So if I’m understanding correctly, we’re planning to force it to switch vessels?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got it. S’why we’re back home. Need all the pull we can get.” He slapped Kendi on the back. “Okay, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mano</span>
  </em>
  <span>. All you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi knelt on the floor. He pulled the small urn from under this jacket and twisted open the cap. He spilled the ashes into a mound on the tiles, then positioned his palms over it. He exhaled slow, controlled breaths. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds passed. And then Cleo watched in wonder as the ashes blackened, rose into fire. As if the cremation process were being rewound. He tried to imagine the technical requirement. Was Kendi conceptualizing the redial of time itself for the ashes? Was that even possible? Or was he conceptualizing his own version of backward events? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Entranced, Cleo forgot to breathe. His vision swam before he remembered to inhale. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, a body laid before them. At first it was a dry body, an awful corpse. But Kendi worked his magic, and soon the body appeared as a sleeping boy, identical to the one Cleo had seen in the trash bin. No injuries. Not a scratch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was incredible. Once again, Cleo felt his own smallness aside these talented mages. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette took over next, drawing runes over the boy’s body. When she was done, a thick scrawl of hieroglyphs covered the torso. She capped the marker and handed it to Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to summon the spirit now. Keep back with Kendi. Remember, if anything unexpected happens, let us handle it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi wrapped a hand around Cleo’s and pulled him into the connected dining room. Ricardo extended a palm. Wires snaked through the floor tiles like needles through fabric—wrapped around the corpse’s throat, arms, torso, legs, keeping it flush against the ground. Ricardo finished and nodded at Liesette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She placed her hands over the corpse’s marked torso and began whispering a string of foreign syllables. Maz had called spellwords crutches, but Cleo could not see anything weak about the sort of magic Liesette was attempting to pull off now. If anything, this was probably impossible without the spellwords.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights flickered. Liesette continued to chant. In the corner of Cleo’s eye, the water in a bottle trembled. The lights flickered again, the electric zapping audible—and then, the apartment went dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi conjured an orb of golden light. Cleo adjusted his vision and watched with disturbance as the corpse began to jerk. Liesette’s chanting grew in volume. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then—the corpses’s eyes snapped open. Landed on Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cardo!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo closed his extended hand into a fist. Just as the lips on the corpse snarled into a horrific grin, the wires around its body constricted—into knots, cutting through flesh and bone. The head made a gurgling noise. Before it could twitch twice, Ricardo flicked his finger again. Flames—</span>
  <em>
    <span>white </span>
  </em>
  <span>flames—enshrouded the severed body parts. Soon there was nothing but a pile of ash. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette blew out a breathe and stood up. The apartment brightened again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked at the ash, horrified and shocked. He blinked at everyone’s relaxed faces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it?” he said in disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mano</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Ricardo. “Easy shit, right? Told ya we’re the best crew kickin’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette gave him a satisfied smile. Kendi walked forward with the urn and waved the ash back into its container. Ricardo started pulling the furniture back into place. Even the shattered lightbulbs had been fixed. Cleo hadn’t even seen exactly how that happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A high grade horror, cleaned up just like that. They would leave this apartment with no trace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Disappointing?” supplied Liesette. “Expected something a little more exciting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re wondering why we didn’t just get the kid’s ashes on day one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. “No, I understand that. We weren’t sure he was the source.” He paused, unable to get the image of that </span>
  <em>
    <span>child</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s body out of his head. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>If </span>
  </em>
  <span>he hadn’t been the source, and we tried the same summoning magic, we...we wouldn’t have called back the owner of the body, would we?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Revival of a neutral spirit? No, I’m afraid that’s impossible if the soul has already passed beyond the Tapestry. But we might have ended up summoning the nearest ghost or another forming horror.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” said Ricardo, “and I don’t like butcherin’ innocent bodies. Anyway, it’s time to give our plump fifty pickin’s their due reward! Drinks on me, eh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They set the apartment back to its original state. They drove out to a streetside parlor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nine hours later, after a good rest and a quick shopping spree, they were on their way to the sprawling province of Jiangxi, on the trail of their second target. Cleo, who’d started this whole assignment without knowing what to expect, finally released his lingering nerves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz had promised he was in good hands. And with a team like this, what could possibly go wrong?</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Wednesday | May 12, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cleo had been sitting in the back of a truck for four hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A local merchant had been generous enough to transport the team from the metropolis of central Guangzhou to the rural village districts of the deep south. Never before had Cleo seen live scenery like this: rolling farm fields and rice paddies, distant high mountains and rows of mudbrick homes. His phone had long run out of batteries from his photographing and filming. His clothes were sweat-soaked from the unexpected heat and the beating sun. But the discomfort was small next to the experience, which was proving to be far more of a gift than a chore.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette, who was usually quite talkative, had been silent during the ride. Ricardo was snoring, deep asleep. Kendi seemed the same as usual. Cleo was just fine with all this: he was something of an extroverted introvert, able to strike up the social facade when life preferred it, but more happy with quiet company. Leaning against a box of wares, he listened to the truck driver’s radio music while enjoying the landscape, his thoughts occasionally wandering over the details of their next mission. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The team had debriefed him on the flight down to Guangzhou. Their southern task was a detainment, because their target was still human—a new warlock, who had been previously registered in the Andronicus database as a mediocre junior warden. The warlock went by the name Su Lingfei, and had been a resident of the Quannan county of southern China before her Tapestral affinity was discovered. She was an Andronicus affiliate for six years, until tragedy struck and she crossed paths with the warlocks of the Souldancers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo vaguely remembered the mention of that name. Liesette told him more. The Souldancers were a underground society of warlocks, having appeared perhaps eighty years ago, some decades after the Institute demolished its predecessor. Not much was known about the internal workings of the organization, because they laid quite low. But that didn’t mean the society was innocuous. Warlocks were never innocuous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By nature, said Liesette, they were mages driven so deeply by power that they would discard their humanity. One became a warlock by inviting horrors into their vessel, and then, by sheer force of will, subsuming the consciousness of the horror and claiming its connection with the Tapestral weave. Those who failed simply became feed for the horror. Those who succeeded lost a part of themselves. The very integrity of their soul, corroded by the malice of the horror they subsumed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette said many of them did it to fulfill their own desires. Lust for recognition, money, fame, power. But so too did many mages do it because they felt like they had no other choice. Because, for some personal cause, they needed the power. It was a pity, she said, that a soul could not be saved from the corrosion of a horror, because even the most justified reason would rot, given enough time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock they were tracking was among the latter. While the woman had been studying at Andronicus, she fell in love with a fellow apprentice who was killed by a minor calamity in her sixth year. Not long after, in a private, foolish, suicide excursion to hunt down said calamity, she was rescued by a Souldancer. It didn’t take much to win her over. Weeks later, the woman vanished from the Institute. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Institute suspected her fate only because she had mentioned her run-in with the Souldancer to a House friend. Since then, they had been keeping an eye out on her home in Quannan. It had been five months. Last week, however, they received a report that the woman had returned to her family. She was living in the village now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman’s conceptualization capacities were low. And she had not been a warlock for long. Even with the enhanced spiritual energy of a subsumed entity and the heightened connection, she was not expected to pose Grade A hazard. The team’s task was to capture her and return her to the Institute, where she would undergo the Tapestral severance. Her channel would be permanently closed through old Order magic, and then she would be permitted to resume her human life. Once she passed, her ghost would be exorcised before it could reform as a horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Cleo were in her shoes, he would probably want this outcome himself. Assuming he had exacted his vengeance, he would want to spend the rest of his life with his family, having nothing to do with the Tapestry. And he would want his channel severed so he wouldn’t be a threat to those he loved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that was him. He had a feeling their warlock had her differences. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four in the afternoon, their truck reached the small inner-mountain town where Su Lingfei called home. Farm fields surrounded the outskirts beyond a river, but just over a bridge, the dirt road became a paved road. Short buildings stacked side by side, with open market stalls of merchandise and foods lining the sidewalk. Advertisements plastered the windows and Chinese pop droned out from the shops. Cars rolled idly by, not in as half a great a rush as those of the city. The driver was generous enough to drop them off at a modest hotel and leave his number. Liesette gave him a hefty tip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had an early dinner at the hotel diner, six plates of entrees and a good serving of sides on a glass turntable. Cleo, whose appetite had returned since the exorcism, took his liberties with his plate portions. He had just stuffed himself full when the waiters arrived with a seventh entree—a massive bowl of soup. Ricardo rubbed his hands in excitement and filled his own bowl with the pungent, spiced liquid, which had some kind of meat, noodle, and reddish brown rectangles that looked a little like tofu. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like that, baby, just like that. They don’t do it right like this up north. Smells </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfecto</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Come on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mano</span>
  </em>
  <span>—gotta try some too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is it?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pig blood soup,” said Ricardo. “Here, pass me your bowl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m—uh, I’m getting pretty full.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>mano</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You always got room to try new things. Plus, you could use some size.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo begged to differ. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>short</span>
  </em>
  <span>, not bony. Not Ricardo either, but his construction work had kept him fit enough. Unless Ricardo was talking about fat, in which case, Cleo was pretty sure he was already going to return home with five additional pounds. Ah, well. Maz had promised physical training, plus Ricardo had already scooped a waiting spoonful...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a taste,” said Cleo, handing over his bowl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, that’s my guy!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo filled his bowl to the brim. Cleo tried to be a good sport, but only managed to get through half. It wasn’t bad. The blood chunks though—probably an acquired taste. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So,” said Cleo after his last bite, “do we have a plan for Su Lingfei?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s pretty simple,” said Liesette. “We’ve got her address. So we’ll stop by this evening and let her know we’re looking to bring her back to the Institute.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just like that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” said Ricardo. “That’s how the cops do it, eh? Show up at your door and tell you you’re under arrest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We don’t think she’s likely to resist,” said Liesette. “She knows we have her home on file. She probably knows we keep it on watch. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>think she got what she wanted and is ready to retire to village life. And if she doesn’t want to be on the run from us her whole life, she’s better off letting us sever her channel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused, propping his elbow on the table and tapping his jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said, “That’s what I would do, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. The Souldancers recruited her, didn’t they? They must have guided her through the transformation process. Invested resources. I don’t think they did it out of the kindness of their hearts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think it could be a trap?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette smiled. “You have a sharp head on your shoulders, Cleo. And yeah, that’s something I’ve thought about. But Su Lingfei’s a tier-one warden. She never hit second tier manipulation on the records. So the way I see it, the Souldancers took her in, found out she was weak, and let her off their leash. Their resources are finite, and they’ll be wanting to spend those on powerful mages.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see,” he said eventually.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? You sound dubious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. “No. Just a little confused, I suppose. Have a lot to learn. I’ll follow your lead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry, Cleo,” said Ricardo. “Even if she goes rogue, we can handle it. Maz probably didn’t want you messin’ with Grade A just yet, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>those </span>
  </em>
  <span>are our real jams, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hermano. </span>
  </em>
  <span>We’ve got, like, two dozen of those under our belt. This little B-ster? She’s nothin’.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. He wasn’t too worried to begin with, not after seeing what they did to the Tianjin horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wrapped up dinner and moved out. By then, night had fallen. And there was a new moon. The streetlights of the central town obscured it for a bit, but when they reached the outskirts where Su Lingfei lived, Cleo glimpsed the sky. He slowed in breathless surprise at the sprawl of stars—an uncountable gossamer veil. A vision which could not be seen in metropolitan Boston. Strangely, his heart began to hammer. His chest began to ache. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Liesette called his name and pulled him back on track, vanishing the strange reaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Su Lingfei lived in a simple brick house across the town bridge, with chickens clucking about the unpaved, dusty driveway. A pair of young teenagers glimpsed them and retreated through an open door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got this,” said Ricardo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds later, a man in a loose white tank and sweatpants met him at the door. He gave the group a suspicious once over. Ricardo had no sooner opened his mouth than the man said something in Chinese. Cleo thought the caught the name </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lingfei</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo nodded and responded. The man disappeared back into the apartment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, a woman in a white linen dress appeared. Thin, tall—her figure was modelesque; her face, a little more plain, but still pretty. Her most distinctive feature was a triage of moles between her left eyebrow and left eye. She skimmed their four faces, and then smiled wearily. She addressed Ricardo with an accent. “You are wardens, yes?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been waitin’ for us, eh?” said Ricardo. He stretched out a hand. “Ricardo Medina-Mendez. This here’s my team. Yeah, we’re here to bring you back to the Institute. Hopin’ we could manage it without too much trouble. You know, for the family and all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded. “I know. No trouble. We go now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at Liesette, who looked equally surprised for a moment. She shrugged and smiled, and stepped forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no need to rush,” said Liesette, “now that we know you’re not hostile. Plus, it’s not great to be traveling this late. How about we plan for tomorrow, early morning?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei nodded. “We take my brother’s truck. I can travel back here, after.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perfect,” said Liesette. “We’ll meet you back here at six. Thanks for understanding.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei nodded again and began to slink back inside. Cleo found himself conflicted. Everyone said that warlocks were no longer fully human, but this woman, she seemed like she could be a mirror image of himself. The loose line of her shoulders, the peering eyes of the two youths—her siblings? Cousins, nieces? Family. This could be Cleo. Because if anything happened to Dani or Jules or Shuri, if selling his soul to the devil was the only way to protect them, he would do it in a heartbeat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But still, it would be his choice. He would know the consequences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like Lingfei, surely, had known the consequences.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Better their magic than anyone’s lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei disappeared inside her home. The group walked back onto the street. Out of earshot, Liesette and Ricardo shared a glance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take first watch,” said Liesette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course. They weren’t going to trust the woman blindly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo nodded and swung an arm over Kendi’s shoulder. He nodded at Cleo. “Okay, brothers. Let’s hit the haystack for a couple hours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at Liesette. “You’ll be okay by yourself?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just fine,” said Liesette. “Go on, get some rest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They went back to the hotel. At some point in the night, Kendi and Ricardo must have taken their shifts too. But no one woke Cleo until five. He went with Kendi around the block to pick up some food and drink for the trip—mostly, he was moral support, watching Kendi haggle expertly with his fingers, speaking not even a word. Six in the morning, they met as agreed at Lingfei’s doorstep. She was there, patting the tank-top man from last night on the shoulder. They exchanged a few words, then she waved the team into her brother’s truck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced out the window as they departed. The tank-top man stared after them with a cold look on his face. The teenagers were nowhere to be seen. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo drove. There wasn’t enough space inside the truck, so once again, Cleo found himself lounging out on back with Kendi and Liesette. Liesette kept a sharp eye on the two inside. Cleo did the same. He spotted the woman gazing out the mirror more often than not, her fingers wringing her dress. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She seems nervous,” he commented. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I would be,” said Liesette. “Losing your magic is a pretty big deal. Can you imagine it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo could, but his channel had only been open for a matter of weeks. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not </span>
  </em>
  <span>having access was more familiar to him than having access. But in six years? He could imagine it becoming his favorite limb. Like his hands, or his eyes, or, hell, a part of his brain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think she’s having second thoughts?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” said Liesette. “Maybe having her family around kept her rational. But out here, she’s just got herself to think about. Either way, the cat’s in the bag. She can’t escape us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fifteen minutes out from the town, on the dirt road by the rice fields, the woman turned to speak with Ricardo. They exchanged a few sentences before Ricardo shook his head and glanced back at Liesette. A few seconds later, at the next fork in the road, they turned onto a narrow path leading into the mountains. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette frowned and knocked on the glass. Ricardo made a waving gesture with his hand. Liesette sighed and sat back. “Detour it is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drove down the path for ten minutes longer. The fields vanished, replaced by the mountainous surround of thick forest. The path narrowed until it couldn’t be traveled much further by vehicle. Ricardo parked. He and the woman stepped out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?” said Liesette, glancing suspiciously at the meek Lingfei. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her lover’s buried near here,” said Ricardo. “She wants to light some incense for him while she still has her channel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. Her lover—her warden lover. Buried here?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette shook her head. “I guess we’d be jerks to say no…” She tapped Cleo’s shoulder. “Come on. Your chance to tour the woods.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei started ahead. Ricardo followed. Cleo stayed close to Liesette. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the two ahead were out of earshot, Cleo asked, “You really think he’s buried here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tradition,” said Liesette. “The rural Chinese bury their dead deep in the mountains. Better </span>
  <em>
    <span>fengshui</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was he also from the area?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She paused. “Good question. And good point. I’m not sure, but let’s keep an eye out. This might be her ‘second thought.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They continued through the forest, soon steering off the path. Cleo had not hiked before, was uncomfortable with the constance of hissing insects and cluttered branches. And they were going uphill. Soon, he wished he’d donned a long sleeve. He was wearing a Mickey Mouse t-shirt with the nonsensical English words </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sugar and Fries </span>
  </em>
  <span>across the front, purchased from the town shop so that he could survive the southern heat. Now branches and bugs pricked at his bare arms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some twenty minutes later, they finally arrived at a reformed slope under the forest canopy. A part of it seemed to have been cut away, so that it revealed flat rock and dirt. A tombstone was embedded against the rock. Semi-fresh flowers laid across the ground, plus an incense pot with remnant stick stems. Cleo couldn’t read any of the inscriptions on the tombstone, but from the calm look on Ricardo’s face, it seemed the name matched what he expected. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei knelt in front of the tombstone, the dirt staining her white dress. She removed three sticks of incense and matchbox from her bag. After she had set each gently aflame, she clasped her hands and bowed her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi did the same. So did Ricardo. Liesette stood on watch, a little further from the stone than the others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was not familiar with these traditions. But it seemed like a sacred moment. He, too, clasped his hands and bowed his head respectfully. The smoke of the incense drifted close, filling his lungs with the scent of sugared ash, and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something else. He recognized this. From college, his lab work. A kind of…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ether. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up, eyes wide. The smoke from the incense was billowing with far more area than it should. Kendi and Ricardo still had their heads down, but Liesette was stepping closer in his peripheral, frowning. Cleo covered his mouth and nose with one hand, shot out the other palm and conjured a blast of wind to sweep aside the smoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t breathe it! It’s sleeping gas!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette covered her mouth. Ricardo looked up and staggered back. Kendi rushed to his side, grabbing Ricardo’s arm. Lingfei stood—or half-stood. She had not risen to her full height before her figure dissipated—and like a swept gust, reformed at the peak of the slope to gaze down at them. Lofty, icy, her shoulders straight and proud. Nothing like the woman she had presented as until this moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s blood went cold. Teleportation—that was a form of transfiguration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh hell,” muttered Liesette. She was moving closer to Cleo, as if to protect him. “You really want to do this </span>
  <em>
    <span>now, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Lingfei? You’re outnumbered. You’re outmatched. Just come down and spare us all the trouble.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei smiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Am I?” she said softly. Even her voice was different—no meekness, no fear. No weight. “Then why does the fear come from your skin?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette snarled. She snapped her fingers. All around them, the forest came alive. The branches of the trees writhed and expanded, curling around each other’s trunks, forming a large prison. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your T-P’s choppy, warlock. Can’t pass through walls now, can you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I suppose not yet,” Lingfei said calmly, “but I have no need to do it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lingfei!” called Ricardo. “Don’t do this, </span>
  <em>
    <span>chica</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Think about your family. Think about Wen. He wouldn’t have wanted this. You got his killer, right? That’s it. That’s all that matters. Come back with us, and you can—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can do what? Submit to you dogs? You—</span>
  <em>
    <span>feiwu</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” She barked a laugh. “My lover died because he was weak. He was weak because the Order make him so. You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>shuncong</span>
  </em>
  <span>—domesticated dogs. You would put me down like one of you. But no. It is time for wolves to rule.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Growls echoed through the forest prison. Cleo looked around—found massive wolven beasts emerging from all sides, conjured from the air. Red-eyed, thick-fanged creatures. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were supposed to sleep,” Lingfei said calmly. “The Dancers had plans for your bodies. But now you will die here to be my power.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette shot her palm forward and the slope hoisting Lingfei began to crumble. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cardo! I’ve got your—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sprayed Cleo’s face. He blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette staggered in front of him. Her long platinum ponytail—it was half its former length. A strangled gasp gurgled out of her throat. And then—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her head rolled off her shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stumbled back. His breathing had stopped. His mind began to shut down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Motherfucker!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” screamed Ricardo. Around them, the wolves bounding in exploded into thick white flames. But the closest still lunged at the mage, who roared as he tore through their beastly bodies. From Ricardo’s side, Kendi ran in a rush, dropping beside Liesette’s fallen body. He cupped her severed head and held it to her neck, his thin hands trembling. Liesette’s eyes stared blankly up at the sky, her mouth still opened from her unfinished sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had somehow fallen to the ground. He looked around numbly, trying to make sense of what was going on. His eyes caught on Lingfei, directing the violence around Ricardo like an orchestrator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think you can outmatch me?” She smiled. “You, </span>
  <em>
    <span>feiwu</span>
  </em>
  <span>, dogs? Against me—the woman who has consumed both horror </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> calamity?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s throat constricted. In his peripheral, a wolf lunged his way. He was slow in his shock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wolf would have reached him, torn him apart, but Ricardo barreled into it, vanishing the beast into a black mist. Flames rolled off Ricardo’s body—spelled flames, furious flames, a coat of vicious war. He lashed fire at another wolf lunging for Cleo, shouting over the noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kendi! Get Cleo out of here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi scrambled upright, dropping Liesette’s head. He grabbed Cleo’s arm and pulled him up as well.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he whispered. “But, Liesette—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi shook him hard. Cleo met the young man’s wide, tear-filled eyes. “She gone! We go!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stumbled. Kendi pulled harder. Ricardo roared. Liesette’s blood filled the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in Cleo’s head—survival instinct, reason, whatever the hell it might be—clicked. Just enough for him to pull himself together. He inhaled and tore his gaze away from the soaked ground, the limp body. He scanned the forest as Kendi shouted his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ricardo faced the warlock alone. Cleo feared losing him—feared taking away Kendi, who might be able to help in ways that Cleo could not. But fire raged through the wood, with smoke billowing into the air. Ricardo’s magic was explosive, destructive. If Cleo’s instinct was right, then Ricardo could not go all out if he and Kendi were in the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cursed and turned around, following Kendi’s tug. The bulk of the wolves were focused on Ricardo, whose billow of flames obscured Cleo and Kendi from the warlock’s vision. With Liesette’s magic gone, nothing blocked their way. Soon, Kendi and Cleo were hurtling through the woods. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo scrambled for his phone as he ran. No signal. Fuck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to get help!” he shouted at Kendi. The man didn’t respond. Of course. There was no fucking way to reach anyone right now, and even if they could, no one would make it before the battle ended. “She said—she said she’d consumed both horror and calamity. What does that mean? Can Ricardo—?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do not know,” said Kendi. His voice was trembling from exertion, fear. “No make sense. No possible.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he didn’t call it a lie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t call it a lie because they had both seen what she was capable of. Teleportation, the conjuring of the wolves, and the magic that killed Liesette—it was beyond what a Grade B should be capable of. The Thursday before he left for Tianjin, Maz had taught Cleo about bodily preservation to prevent exactly what had happened to Liesette. All experienced mages practiced it by maintaining an open channel and training an instinctive shield. Territorial crossing was impossible, so the only way a neck could be severed like that was by external force. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette would have felt the magic coming for her. She would have summoned her protective barrier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Lingfei cut right through it in the blink of an eye. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stopped running. Kendi skid to a stop a few steps ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo! We go!”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. “Ricardo. He might need help. That magic—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It no matter! We go! You live!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t just leave him! He’s your teammate!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi walked to Cleo. His lips pursed. His nostrils flared. Cleo saw in his eyes that his words had been stupid. Ricardo was Kendi’s teammate, far dearer to him than to Cleo. “My team,” said Kendi. “We promise Maz Lan.” He jabbed a finger at Cleo’s chest. “You live.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo felt his lips tremble. He shut his mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he went back there now, he would be putting Kendi in danger. At least, without Cleo’s safety to worry about, Ricardo might be able to make a run for it if the battle went south. He needed to be realistic about this too. He was no hero. He barely knew how to use his magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi slipped his hand around Cleo’s. Cleo looked up. The young man tugged more gently this time. Cleo followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hurried through the mountain forest for several minutes longer, far off the path from which they’d come. Cleo was not even sure if Kendi knew how to get back to the road. The sounds of the battle had long faded, and all that Cleo could hear now was the sound of his ragged heart, his labored breaths. Images of Liesette’s lifeless eyes flashed in his vision. Images of Ricardo, shredded by wolves. Images of Dani, Jules, Shuri. His eyes began to water.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter what happened, he needed to live. He needed to make it back home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were in some deep, foreign part of the mountain forest when Kendi came to a sudden stop. The mage tightened his grip on Cleo’s hand. Cleo’s heart dropped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All was still. The sound of birds and insects were all that he could hear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Kendi let out an exhale. He took a step forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, the bushes rustled like a whip lashed through them. Kendi instantly pivoted where he stood and slammed his palm against Cleo’s chest. Cleo flew backward, shouting as he crashed against a thick trunk. He blinked and saw vines entwined around Kendi’s limbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendi snarled. The vines broke apart. He danced onto his two feet, drawing a blade from his belt as a black gust blew behind him. Cleo shouted his name. Kendi turned just as Su Lingfei materialized at his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her body blocked Cleo’s view. He saw nothing but her arms encircle Kendi. Heard a horrific crack. Watched Kendi’s body fall limp to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei turned around. Her white dress was soaked in blood and clumps of gore. Cleo wanted to vomit, not from the sight, but from what it meant, from everything that had just happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Three dogs down,” she said through a smile. “One little puppy left.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew he was weak. She had seen the others protect him. She walked toward him slowly, as if savoring his fear. His head swarmed with death, disbelief—with the faces of his sisters and brother. He could not die here. He could not leave them behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up. He was so terrified he could not see straight, could barely make out the features of that approaching face. But he somehow found the composure to think. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette’s words: </span>
  <em>
    <span>You can’t pass through walls now, can you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shut his eyes and covered his head with his hands. Metal groaned. The forest around him went dark. The bird chirps and insects muted. He enclosed himself in a dome of titanium, sealed even the ground beneath his legs. Airtight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressure pushed down on it. He could feel it this time, not like when Marchesi broke apart his bars and he could only stare in surprise. He could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel </span>
  </em>
  <span>the contours of a foreign magic eroding his concept, attempting to pierce his shield. Fiercely strong. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Battle of the minds. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He could not lose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After an indefinite time, something thumped against his metal shield. He heard a frustrated string of foreign words. He was holding. But for how much longer?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would need air eventually. Could he conjure oxygen? Yes, but he would need to conceptualize the full process within his body, and he wasn’t sure he had the technical knowledge to do it. Maybe he could modify the titanium itself, retain its strength while allowing air to pass through. Create an impossible concept—could he do it? Could he do it and then deflect the warlock at the same time?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Either create the oxygen or change the shield—he had no other choice. If he left his shield or if it ruptured, he would die. The warlock’s magic worked at lightspeed—his only shot at survival was stalling long enough to loosen its focus, then maybe, </span>
  <em>
    <span>maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>making a fast escape. He’d have to try teleportation magic again. How far could he move his body? Could he move it back to the Institute, for one of the doctors to fix? Or was it impossible to teleport to a location out of visible range? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Tapestry was the realm of infinite possibility, but was it possible for his mind to conceive of the necessary details? He had no choice but to try. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wait for the opening. Wait for the lull. Practice the concept, feel every bone and pulse in his body…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Minutes passed. Or at least they felt like minutes. Perhaps it was longer. He began to feel the accumulated heat, the depletion of air. He just needed a few minutes more. A few minutes more to gather the courage, the focus, and then he would make his move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo? Cleo!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. Panicked. That was Ricardo’s voice coming from beyond the shield. A trick? It had to be.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t lose focus. She’ll kill you if you lose your concept.  </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He shut his eyes. He tried to block out the voice, the sound of fists against his shield. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, come out! We have to run! Now! Fast!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. It wasn’t Ricardo. She’d said it already—Ricardo was gone. He’d seen the blood on her dress. And those words—those words were without accent, but they were simple, reduced. Not the way Ricardo spoke. She was mimicking him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What kind of fucked up magic was that? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is it magic</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shoved away the doubt. But just as he did so, Ricardo’s scream tore through the quiet. Anguished, throttled cries. Too realistic. “Help, Cleo! Help! Help me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Stop it. Stop it stop it stop it. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t him. Cleo knew it wasn’t him. But the sound of gore mixed with the screams, and the screams became worse, hellish, so pained Cleo could feel every pitch in his bones. Tears streaked down his cheeks. He had never heard a man scream like that, but he knew. He knew it was how Ricardo would scream. And how would she know? </span>
  <em>
    <span>How would she know</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo! Save me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His shield shattered. He inhaled, horrified—lifted his hands over his head, tried to regain his concept—but pain ripped through his right arm, pain worse than anything he’d ever known. He screamed. Ash fell over his head. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t even open his channel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was going to die. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was going to burn him alive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the forest vanished. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*cackles*</p><p>what the heck is going on?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Wednesday | May 12, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gone were the insects and birds, the scent of blood and earth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment Cleo thought he had died. That death was quiet and somber and heavy. But the pain in his arm forced him to open his eyes, and his tears fell upon flat, polished golden limestone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lowered his arms to touch that limestone floor. Only his left hand made contact. His right hand was gone. His right arm was a stump of blackened ash, still flaking to the ground. He did not even have the composure to feel nausea. Just the distant, clockwork sense to register footsteps and a warlock’s gasp. In his peripheral, there was movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked to his left. His eyes fell upon a pair of bare feet, stepping forward. Golden bangles clinked about those copper ankles. Cleo lifted his gaze, following the line of long, thick, muscled calves, the drift of some rich skirt fabric. A gemmed belt, with twines of golden circlets dripping down to those thighs, golden circlets holding delicate hieroglyphs. A bare male torso, massive and chiseled, daunting. Plated armguards, armbands, and a beautiful neckpiece. A thick, undulating, ethereal braid of black hair washing down his back, curling into the pointed tail of a scorpion. Soon his back was all that Cleo could see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man—if that was what it was—planted his feet three steps in front of Cleo. Between his calves, Cleo spotted movement. Su Lingfei. She was pushing herself upright from where she had fallen some distance away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked and straightened his back. He looked around this strange space. Hoisted torches appeared to illuminate the area, but aside from the firelight, there was something else, some unseen source making the entire hall visible. It was a massive hall, a ceremonial hall, with the steps to a tall, distant throne just behind Cleo. The walls slanted inward until they peaked far, far overhead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the inside of a pyramid.    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What manner of entity are you?” said Lingfei. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned his attention back to the being in front of him. A mage? That stance was protective, and who else would come save him? Unless this was another enemy who wanted to claim prey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He waited with bated breath for the response. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What came was a deep, rich echo that filled the pyramid like the space itself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That answer matters not to the would-be dead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dead?” echoed Lingfei. Her lips curled into a smile. “That will be you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A gust of air blew past Cleo. The entity’s bangles and bracelets jangled, and his braid of mist-like hair lifted. Lingfei stumbled back in surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity raised one hand. A staff with a canine animal head materialized. And then he vanished—only to reappear an inch away from the warlock. Lingfei sent out a lash of fire and conjured her own sickle. The two exchanged impossibly fast blows—for Lingfei, no doubt because she enhanced her body with magic. But even so, she was crumpling quickly beneath her opponent’s onslaught. Her blood sprayed the limestone floor, wounds that weren’t quite lethal, but would become lethal soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s heart pounded. His pain flared whenever he shifted. He could only watch this match and hope the victor would spare him. As he was, attempting teleportation would be suicide. Maybe a last resort if it turned out the entity wanted to kill him, but something told him that wasn’t the case. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei soon screamed from pain. With a broken leg, she limped vulnerably back. The entity raised his scepter for the killing strike—and then Lingfei locked eyes with Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shadows materialized around him—wolven beasts again, snarling. A dozen of them leapt for his body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could conjure protective magic, a jangle of jewelry echoed next to his ear. The entity suddenly loomed over him. Cleo could only see the bottom half of his face—the top half was covered by a strange ivory-gold mask with high, pointed animal ears. The entity swept his arm and vanished the foremost charging beasts, but one from behind him sank its teeth into the entity’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or what should have been his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The beast merely chomped away mist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, Cleo felt the entity’s body heat beside him, felt the graze of his arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the other side of the pyramid hall, Lingfei spoke with disbelief. “A shadow!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had no idea what that meant, but it seemed to be bad for him. Lingfei’s lips curled into a malicious grin, and the entity above Cleo flared his nostrils, tightened his jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long will you last?” said Lingfei, leering, conjuring another round of wolves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity’s scepter vanished. He reached for Cleo instead—swept him up in his arms. Cleo hissed in pain from the pressure on his right arm stump. He latched his left arm around the entity’s shoulder, holding on for dear life as the entity rose. The pyramid around them dissipated, golden firelight vanishing into the thick forest. Wind lashed against Cleo’s skin as the entity traveled—ran away from Lingfei. The forest blurred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lost track of time. He was beginning to lose consciousness too. At some point, the entity slowed. Shadows enshrouded them—the shelter of a cave. A river trickled in the near distance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity set him gently against the cave wall. Cleo winced from the motion. He blinked and peered up at the half-masked face, which, from the taut, unmarred skin, appeared to be a youthful face. But without being able to see the entity’s eyes, Cleo was not able to read much at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who...</span>
  <em>
    <span>ah!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pain suddenly exploded through Cleo’s body. The entity was touching his arm stump, doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>something </span>
  </em>
  <span>to it. He grabbed the entity’s wrist and tried desperately to pull it off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A hand cupped his face. The entity leaned close. A gentle whisper swept over his skin, a hushing sound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked, tears spilling as he looked down, saw his bone and flesh quickly regrow. It still hurt, but now that he understood that he was being helped, he bore through the brunt of it, biting his lip and suppressing all but a few quiet whimpers. And then, it was over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No pain. No ache. Nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a faint, ghostly burn. And a sting in his lip. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand, still cupping his face, swept its thumb over his lip. Even that sting faded. Cleo took a few deep breaths, and freed from the pain, found the headspace to think again. He looked up at the entity’s face again, which was patiently waiting for Cleo to collect himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You saved my life,” whispered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hand on his cheek lifted. No more contact. But still hovered there, the heat palpable. Cleo glanced at this hand, the intricacies of the palm lines as real as human. But this entity had no beating pulse, not when Cleo had laid against its chest during the escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shadow of what? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo searched for his eyes, as if he could somehow see through the mask. “Who are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity was quiet. His hovering hand moved again, this time to touch a fingertip to Cleo’s cheek, just beneath his eye. His touch trailed slowly, gently down. Cleo’s heart thundered, filled with some inexplicable emotion. His head swam, disoriented. He shut his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not for long. He felt the entity lean close. His eyes fluttered open to a head lowered beside his own. The entity was no longer touching him, not directly, his hands having curled into fists against the cavewall above Cleo. But his breath swept Cleo’s cheek, the side of his throat. His breath labored—the muscles in his thick arms sharply bulging, veins visible—and then exhaled a soft, pained groan. This voice no longer carried the subsuming echo in the pyramid. It was simply human.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you hurt?” murmured Cleo. He started to reach for the entity’s shoulder, where the wolf had bitten. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity drew back before Cleo could touch. He shook his head. Then he stood and walked to the cave entrance, glancing back as if waiting for Cleo to follow. Cleo pushed upright, feeling jarringly small as he stood properly beside the looming entity. He didn’t even reach the entity’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entity led him out of the cave, alongside the river. They walked in silence. It was not long before they came to a dirt road, which widened as it neared the main road. The entity made way for Cleo to step ahead of him. Cleo did so. As he reached the clearing of the forest thicket, he turned around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was not surprised to see that the entity had vanished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did not linger either. Time seemed to start again now that he was alone. The relief of survival faded, replaced by thoughts of Liesette, Ricardo, Kendi—the thought that the warlock was still alive. He hurried down the main road, hailing down the next truck that passed. He fished out his phone, which had miraculously survived the entire ordeal. As soon as he had signal again, he placed a call to Maz. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man picked up after two and a half rings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah, my zealous pupil. How is the trip</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took a shaken breath. The truck driver eyed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cleo?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Maz said, sounding concerned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We ran into a—a calamity, I guess,” Cleo said quietly. “Think S Grade. I don’t know. They’re all…” He swallowed. “Liesette, Ricardo, and Kendi. They’re all gone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A short pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz’s tone changed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Send me your location now. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>are you in danger? Hurt?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Long story. Tell you when you get here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hung up. He mapped his location and ID’d the next town, which was about an eight minute drive away. He sent that to Maz, and when the truck got close enough, he thanked the driver with the wad of cash in his wallet and hopped off. He walked toward the town, found a streetside clothing shop the size of a single room, and ducked inside to avoid the stares and shopkeepers waving him down. He wordlessly handed the shopkeeper what remained of his cash and they did not bother him when he planted himself on the bench. He sent a text to Maz, and then he waited.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nearly an hour passed before the old man appeared in the late morning window, dressed in a thin button-down shirt and his usual dark dress slacks. Cleo waved at his stark, searching face. The tension there seemed to loosen in relief as Maz hurried inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing Maz did was grab his wrist and kneel in front of him. Maz searched his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shuri. Birthday.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. “March 3rd, 2012.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz exhaled and released him, then sat beside Cleo. The shopkeepers whispered from a distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you knew,” muttered Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz shook his head. “Yisroel and the others are on their way. I came as fast as I could. Ricardo, Liesette...by ‘gone’, I assumed you meant…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded numbly. “Their bodies are in the forest. I didn’t...have time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And this calamity? It’s still alive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I think so.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me what happened.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was the warlock,” said Cleo. “Su Lingfei. We were escorting her back when she turned on us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She had a calamity in her company?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. She said something about having consumed both a horror and a calamity.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz was quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She took out the team. They tried to protect me. Said it was because they promised you that I would…” His voice broke. “I would live.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz covered Cleo’s hand. A long moment passed. “She will pay for this. I am in their debt that they bought you the time to escape.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. His throat was dry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I watched them die in front of me, Maz,” he whispered. “She was going to kill me. She was going to burn me alive. I saw my own fucking ash, and...and...if he hadn’t saved me, I...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo trailed off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It suddenly clicked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saved him? Restored his limb?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Boston. April. Out on the street of his cheap neighborhood apartment, tossed by Breuston’s horror. Bleeding through the gut—a gaping, lethal hole. And that crawling warmth, the magic that saved his life. The thrum in his arm this morning had felt—was he imagining this?—it had felt </span>
  <em>
    <span>familiar.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz had loosened his grip. He withdrew slowly. He spoke slowly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who, Cleo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He...he didn’t give me a name.” Cleo paused. “He </span>
  <em>
    <span>looked </span>
  </em>
  <span>human, but I think he was a spirit. Egyptian. He changed the landscape into the inside of a pyramid. Lingfei called him a shadow. What’s a shadow, Maz?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked up. “Maz?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz was staring at the floor, his jaw tense. It seemed to take him effort to resume a semblance of indifference. “A shadow,” he said, “is a fragment of consciousness that exists apart from the main vessel. It essentially allows something to be in two places at once, although their shadow form will be far weaker and vulnerable to expiration. Creating a shadow is a highly dangerous, highly advanced technique that is possible only for calamities and warlocks of the highest grade. Mages cannot make them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But he healed me,” said Cleo. “How is that—you said a shadow exists apart from the main vessel? Maz, he recreated my arm. Territorial crossing is only possible when two vessels connect, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your instinct is right. It shouldn’t be possible. It seems there’s more at play that we haven’t grasped.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, then…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The critical point is that you were rescued by an enemy. With motive, I’m sure.” Maz stood up. “I want you back with the Order, Cleo. There are not enough wards here. Let’s begin moving now. We can debrief at home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But the team, their bodies—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We will recover them. Let’s go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo couldn’t argue with the man’s tone. He followed as Maz tracked down a garage and bartered for the car, speaking in what sounded to be fluent Chinese. Soon they were on the road. Maz didn’t ask any more questions, absorbed in his own thoughts. Cleo didn’t have the heart for chatter either. He fell into a swamp of memories.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liesette’s calm smile. Ricardo’s Spanish endearments. Kendi’s hand around his own. Part of him could not reconcile with the fact that they were gone. Part of him clung to the fancy that it was all illusion magic. Because those generous, brilliant people who had welcomed him as family from the moment they met—how could they just vanish from the world? Just like that? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drifted, overwhelmed and exhausted. He saw a patient face beneath an ethereal mask, felt a warm and protective hold. A pulseless chest, a body of mist. That faint, vulnerable groan echoed in his ears. A soft and human pain.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some time later, the vehicle rolled to a stop. Maz shook him awake at a gas station, warned him to be obedient. Cleo blinked in confusion as Maz left the driver’s seat and an androgynous blonde took his place. When he looked out the window, there was no old man. Just a falcon soaring off, back toward the distant village. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yisroel drove Cleo to a late afternoon city, walked him to an alley home where an Institute mage lived. The portal took them back to morning on the Hecatian Island—not House Morpheus, but House Apollo. Cross-House travel did not happen often, said Yisroel coolly. Only in cases of extreme emergency. Not that anyone ever said no to Maz Lan. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wanted to go home, but Yisroel would not let him. So he followed her to the Institute’s main building, where Dr. Arkling checked him over and found him unharmed. He was allowed to shower and change, and then he was locked in a private office, picking at a tray of food for what felt like hours. All that kept him company was the polished Victorian furniture, the long couches and oakwood desk, the black computer monitor and table plant. Afternoon, his siblings messaged. He sent them a photograph from last night—had it really been last night?—and said he would be home soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half past two, the door opened. Cleo sat upright from his spot on the couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Maz, appearing no worse for wear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You found them? Her?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz shut the door. He walked over to the opposite couch. “Not the warlock. Our own, yes. We’ll restore the bodies to a presentable state and hold the funeral this weekend. I was not expecting…” He paused, shook his head. “You will have to tell me exactly what happened. When you are ready, of course. We need the data on file for our next encounter with the warlock.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m ready now,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz watched him for a moment, then nodded. He walked to the desk and rummaged through it. He returned to the couch with a small black device. “I’m going to record what you have to say. Go on. Start from the beginning, when you first approached Su Lingfei.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did. He didn’t leave out a detail about Lingfei. He had to pause every so often, because he could not rehash the events with the clinical detachment he envisioned. The blood was thick in his lungs. The insects still prickling along his arms. The heat of the flames rolling from Ricardo’s body, the thunder of his roar, and Liesette’s glassy eyes, Kendi’s finger against his chest...Everything was as vivid as the moment it happened. The painful benefit of a mind too clear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he reached the part about the entity’s sudden appearance, Maz held out a hand. He stopped the recording before saying, “Continue.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did so, glazing over some moments in the cave.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you...find any traces of him?” Cleo asked when he was done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz shook his head. “A shadow rarely leaves a trace. We found nothing on it or the warlock. She did leave some carnage at her town home though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s blood went cold. “Her family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz nodded. “You said you saw a man? Youth? I believe those were either conjurations or other warlocks. When we searched the house, we found no living bodies. But six corpses had been buried in the yard some days ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They planned this,” whispered Cleo. “They were lying in wait for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. If Su Lingfei really did consume a horror and a calamity, it would be an unprecedented feat. They might have wanted to test out her abilities against a trained team.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Dancers are looking for warden captives,” said Cleo, remembering the words from the forest. “The sleeping gas—she meant to take us back first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She lost her temper,” said Maz. “It’s typical.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked at his right arm. His hand tremored. “She wanted to take me back. She wasn’t trying to kill me. She could have burnt my whole body at once if she wanted to, but she only went for my arms. God, if he hadn’t—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You keep saying that,” said Maz. “‘If </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> hadn’t.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked up. Maz watched him with a disapproving stare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What ‘saved’ you was a calamity, Cleo. You need to remember that. Calamities are not human. They are formations of human malice, anguish, regret. Every good thing they do comes with a dangerous motive.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How can you be so sure he was a calamity?” said Cleo. “If calamities are as dark as you say, then maybe he is another kind of entity. Or maybe there’s more to them than we think. Maz, he didn’t just save my life. He healed my arm. He was mindful of my pain, and he was...gentle, kind—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz slammed a palm on the table between them. Cleo nearly jumped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He fell silent, eyes wide at the sudden, new aggression. That look in Maz’s eyes—he’d never seen it before. Not on this man, not this flaring, dangerous anger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His </span>
  <em>
    <span>shadow</span>
  </em>
  <span>—not his primary self, but his </span>
  <em>
    <span>shadow</span>
  </em>
  <span>—morphed the field. The only being capable of this is a cultivated calamity. How many times do I need to tell you this, Cleo? They are driven by darkness. It is in their nature. There is </span>
  <em>
    <span>no changing their nature.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quiet moment. Maz drew back. Cleo looked away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words rang in his head. But he could not unfeel the fingertip running down his cheek. What was darkness?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why did he save me?” whispered Cleo. “Why did he heal me? What did he want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Consumption. Possession. Dominance. They want little else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. Swallowed. He fought the urge to speak his next words, and he lost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he said, “Your sister.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz stilled. Cleo was afraid he had crossed a line. His heart thundered, waiting for the explosion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But after a moment, Maz answered with a deep sigh. “Yes. My sister.” He rummaged through his inner jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, a lighter. Cleo had never seen him smoke before, but when Maz opened the pack, half of it was empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo waited for the man to light his smoke, inhale a breath. Pause. Lean back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My sister,” said Maz at last, “was a kind, wise woman. She did not see this world as it had been taught for hundreds of years. She believed it was in </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>nature to misconstrue that which we did not understand. That which we feared. And she was powerful. Powerful enough that she could afford to be wrong. Over and over again. Until the last time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz took another drag of his cigarette. Another long quiet followed before he resumed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My sister was a kind, wise, beautiful woman. In spirit. In body. Men loved her. Women loved her. And so did the calamity that killed her. As much as he knew how to, which was not much at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another drag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You see, Cleo, they are capable of mimicking human warmth. Human gentleness. But they will never feel it in their broken, warped, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hideous </span>
  </em>
  <span>souls.” The cigarette was crushed between his fingers. Maz breathed. Gathered himself. “The calamity who </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved </span>
  </em>
  <span>my sister, he was an immortal being. And because her life was finite and short, because he was too selfish to let her go, he made a horror out of her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A winter cold settled like a blanket. Cleo’s throat began to numb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz held his gaze and nodded slowly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” said the mage softly. “My sister had no malice in her heart. She was as pure as they came. And because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved </span>
  </em>
  <span>her, he forced her in her final days to endure unfathomable pain. To trap her spirit in this world with grief and anguish. I…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz looked down. His voice wavered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I couldn’t do anything to save her. I could only fight for what remained of her. Her spirit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You freed her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz met his gaze again. He drew up a tired smile. “In a sense. She is at peace. And that is all I want, Cleo. For the peace of her spirit. For the calamity who wronged her to be destroyed by my hands. And for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>to survive, least until I’m deep enough in the ground to be blind to your death.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked down. He wrapped one arm around the other, his fingers digging into his skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did your sister...have children?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then, the calamity...what did he look like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt Maz’s eyes on him. Maz stood up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are asking irrelevant questions, Cleo Sullivan. Come. It’s time you went home.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo obeyed wordlessly. He returned to an empty house, his siblings off at school. He had none of the souvenirs he had promised. Alone, he laid in his bed, feeling the onslaught of it all dredge up overwhelmed tears. Soon he fell into a deep sleep, submerged in awful dreams he could not remember. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Valentine's Day! ;)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Thursday | May 13, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of the week passed without substance. Maz was absent from the Institute on his private business, follow-up investigations on the Quannan incident. Cleo could not find the motivation to idle himself among apprentices. After witnessing the brutal murder of his team—his friends, even if they were not </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>team—he could barely find a daily footing. He stayed in Boston, picking up a few idle labor jobs on Craigslist to regain a sense of normalcy. It came for brief moments at a time, always shattered too quickly by a vivid memory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At home, his siblings noticed. When Cleo told Shuri he’d lost the souvenirs on the way back, she did not complain. She hugged him and told him it was okay, and that was her small method of saying that she saw through the fake smile on his lips. Dani tried to ask after the details, but Cleo just didn’t have the words. Neither did he want his siblings to be involved in this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The funeral was held on Saturday morning, Mediterranean time. As Cleo dressed in the Institute suit, dread welled in his chest. He did not want to return to the reality of mages and warlocks and horrors and calamities. He didn’t want to face the truth. He just wanted life to be simple again, when all that mattered was himself and his family in their cheap little apartment. But even if he walked away now, packed his bags and moved across the world, it was impossible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the congregation, the Bones squad tracked him down. They started with condolences, then pestered him with questions. Cleo wasn’t even sure how anyone knew he was involved with the team. He was just sick of the constant buzz. He brushed the questions off and endured the remainder of the event, wishing to a nonexistent god that he could just have the peace to grieve. But that peace did not come, and as soon as it was over, Cleo rushed back home. He did not even bother to speak with Maz, who had taken a leave from his business to send off his friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saturday passed. Then Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wednesday, he received a call at quarter past five in the morning, Boston time. It was Maz, so Cleo reluctantly picked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Still asleep? You seem to have forgotten that we have training at this hour.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t forgotten,” Cleo muttered. “Just don’t want to go.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>So I’ve heard. You haven’t been at the House in days.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you can understand why.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz sighed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Cleo, and that’s why I’ve given you a week. Now I need you back on your feet. Evil doesn’t slumber because we have hard times. You don’t have to go on another mission anytime soon, but our training continues.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry. I’ve got a job this morning. Maybe next time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hung up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt guilty immediately afterward, but his guilt didn’t overcome his nausea. He didn’t want to face that version of reality, one where good people died at the snap of a warlock’s fingers, where calamities tortured their lovers and brothers lived for vengeance. Where pieces dangled in disjoint, and could fit together in the most awful ways. He couldn’t go back there. Not yet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he ignored Maz’s next call. He drove down to Newton at 6 A.M. and wrapped up his house paint job from the internet. He did some grocery shopping afterward, then arrived home at 4 P.M., just in time to start a pot roast and some custard for dessert. He was lounging on the couch after dinner when something tapped him on the shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned. Glanced a DVD package of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Babadook. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Said you wanted to watch together,” mumbled Jules. “Got some time, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I watch too?” said Shuri, walking over from the dining table.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at his sister. He smiled up at Jules and pushed the DVD back. “Save it for later? Do you have anything lighter for tonight?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules nodded. A few minutes later, he returned with </span>
  <em>
    <span>Casper </span>
  </em>
  <span>(the Friendly Ghost). Shuri snuggled up beside Cleo, who felt his distant numbness melt under old, familiar warmth. It was not long before Dani joined them too. Some half-hour into the film, Shuri’s breaths slowed. She had fallen asleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should put her to bed,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani placed a hand on his shoulder. “Wait ‘til the movie’s done. Besides, she likes being around you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few minutes passed. On screen, Casper revived his friend’s father at the cost of his own chance at life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo,” Dani murmured, “you know we’re here for you, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to his sister. “Of course I know that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I don’t just mean emotionally. We’re here for you, for anything. If this shit with Hogwarts doesn’t work out, we’ll find a way to make things work. Together. Okay?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo leaned back against the couch, digesting her words. He was comfortable in this moment, with his family, watching a film where spirits were kind and innocuous. That made it easier to process the sludge of all he’d been feeling. “Hogwarts, hm? I’ll be honest. Some days I feel like Neville Longbottom and some days I feel like Harry Potter. Either way, the Dark Lord’s got me fucked up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani chuckled. “Both are pretty great characters, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Neville from, like, the first two books.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>liked him,” said Dani. “But what’s this Dark Lord?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo scratched his head. “Right now? I don’t really know. I don’t really </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened in China?” said Jules. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused. He couldn’t tell them that he’d watched three wardens die. He couldn’t tell them how close he’d come to death himself. They would not be able to sleep at night. But after dodging the topic for so long, he didn’t want to tell a blatant lie either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our mission got a little out of hand,” he said at last. “I’m not supposed to talk about the details. But the whole affair made my mentor spill some heavy revelations. I haven’t really been able to process everything yet. It’s...pretty convoluted. I’m not sure I want to get involved, but I’m worried about him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mentor? The old man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani rubbed his back. “Well, from what you’ve told us so far, sounds like the guy can take care of himself. You don’t have to get involved, Cleo. You don’t even have to go back there. We </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>need this house, any of this. If it’s too much—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We do need the house,” said Cleo. “It’s warded.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They can’t use it to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make </span>
  </em>
  <span>you go on these missions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They won’t,” said Cleo. He sighed and rubbed his head. “They wouldn’t make me. I’m safe around them, really. Just want some space away to process some thoughts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rubbed his back again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next day, Cleo started building a private shed in the backyard. He crafted the wood from the trees with his magic, created nails from used metal around the house. It was the first time he’d used his magic since leaving China, but he found it almost as easy as moving his limbs. Maybe it was the raw experience of surviving the warlock. He noticed that he doubted his concepts less, which opened up more space in his mind, enabled him to expand the depth and breadth of his imagination.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shed was done by mid-morning. He ducked inside and used the private space to practice his magic. He did this for the next few days. He started with things he had witnessed others do: Liesette’s disintegration spellwork, Ricardo’s fire. The first took him a few hours. The second took him until Friday, on which he managed a white fire that was, perhaps, only white in color. Then as he refined this, he began to work on the speed and multitude of his concept.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz was right. They all were right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic came naturally to him. The more time that passed, the more he sifted through his thoughts since China, the more he accepted this fact. He was beginning to feel like a fish who’d spent its life on land, finally learning how to swim. If he had done this earlier, if he had mastered his talent before he met Ricardo, Liesette, Kendi, would they still be alive? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe. Maybe, and that was enough motivation for him.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He would eventually need to return to the Institute to develop his practical skills. By then, it would be to request a mission. You could only learn so much with the safety net of a classroom. That was why Maz had sent him with the team so early. Because the classroom was simply not enough to prepare him for the inevitable dangers that would haunt his life, and by extension, his family’s lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Saturday went. Sunday went. Cleo divided his time between his training and his family. Monday, around dusk and while Cleo was cooking dinner, the doorbell rang. Jules was upstairs and Dani was taking a shower, so he flipped off the stop with a flick of his fingers and tossed his spatula on the counter. He walked over to the door, then peered out the peephole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shock of burgundy hair met him. A hexagonal star on a porcelain cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo quickly opened the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned, appearing truly happy to see him. Cleo skimmed his body head to toe. Clean jacket and jeans, not a single visible injury, not a hair out of place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Missed me, darling?” said the mage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you’d vanished off the face of the earth,” said Cleo. “I called you several times.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know. I saw. And I’m flattered. About the concern, not about the lack of faith.” He took a whiff. “Smells delicious. Your cooking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Paella.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously? Tell me you have room for one more at the table.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo wanted to roll his eyes in exasperation, but he couldn’t help the smile that pushed itself onto his lips. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>happy to see Christopher, more so than he’d expected. “Come inside.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher hopped in and shook off his shoes. He looked about the house and whistled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not bad. I would have found you a place closer to the elementary school though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering how you lost the bid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>didn’t. I told a mate to bid cap for you, and he still lost. I would’ve fought harder, but urgent business had me out of town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was Shuri, peering down from the top of the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, kiddo. Long time no see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is Amalia with you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not today, kiddo. Good news for me, because I get a larger share of the meal. Right, Cleo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Have a seat. I’m just about done. You want anything to drink?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something sweet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo poured him some orange juice. Jules and Dani were downstairs soon, equally surprised to see Christopher. Jules didn’t say much. Dani, the better host, struck up a conversation while Cleo plated the food. He eavesdropped idly, listening to his sister ask after how the mage has been. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Busy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, said Christopher. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hunting down some wrongdoers in the middle of nowhere. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span> Shuri helped him set the table. When all was in place, Jules dug straight in. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This looks incredible, Cleo,” said Christopher. “Where’d you pick up the recipe?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our mother,” said Cleo, sitting down. “Try it first before you praise me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. To Cleo’s surprise, instead of picking up his fork, Christopher clasped his hands together and closed his eyes. He murmured a soft, quick Spanish prayer. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Amén.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you were religious,” said Cleo when he was done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I prefer ‘faithful,’” said Christopher, at last lifting his fork. “I believe in the concept, not the god. A moral compass of compassion in all that we do and gratitude in all that we receive.” He took his first bite. His eyes lit up. “This is </span>
  <em>
    <span>delicious</span>
  </em>
  <span>! I’ve haven’t had </span>
  <em>
    <span>paella </span>
  </em>
  <span>like this in years. Oh, damn, Cleo—you have to know I will propose to you one day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani covered her mouth mid-chew. Jules shot a sudden glare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri swallowed her bite and said, “Are you two dating?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Shuri,” said Cleo. “He’s joking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not,” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo’s a tough guy to charm,” said Dani, all smiles. “He’s got </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>particular tastes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Do tell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be able to quote Bronte, Márquez, and Dumas.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher held up a finger as he chewed and swallowed. Then said: “‘The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.’ Do I pass?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Love in the Time of Cholera</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Cleo. “I’m impressed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s one out of three,” said Dani.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One out of seventeen,” said Cleo. “Don’t strain yourself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>darling</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Anyway, I heard you were in Siberia. Care to share?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a dull trip,” said Christopher. “My feeders gave me leads on a Dancer base in the tundra. You had a run in with them yourself, I heard.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s interest had piqued at the mention of the Dancers. But Christophers second sentence sent him into a faint panic. He did not want his siblings learning about the Quannan mission, which Christopher—or someone at his House—must have heard about at the Friday debrief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was in passing. Nothing serious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher nodded, understanding. “Right. I’ve been trying to track down the head of the beast for a while now. Not something the Institute’s interested in because the Dancers have kept themselves on the down low, but it’s something they </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be prioritizing. As recent events prove.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was talking about Quannan. Cleo agreed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Siberia, though, was almost a complete bust. Spent over a month trimming through that winter wasteland and nearly lost a few toes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you have pictures?” said Shuri.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure do, kiddo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher dug around in his pocket for his phone. While he searched for the photos, Cleo asked, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>a complete bust?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Found something that could be a trail. I have some guys at the Institute analyzing it now. But, you know, in the meantime, I wanted to see you again. Here you go, kiddo. Check out the album.” He handed the phone over to Shuri, then turned his attention back to Cleo. “How have </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>been?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo snorted softly. “You haven’t heard? </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>been a delinquent.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never would have guessed,” said Christopher, though the smile on his lips suggested he already knew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They didn’t send you to pull me back over the portal?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Send </span>
  </em>
  <span>me? No one’s got the rank to do that. I came to collect on your debt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. The drink.” Cleo tapped his glass of juice. “You’re welcome.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Won’t lie,” said Dani, “that’s a poor drink if I’ve ever seen one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at his sister. She gave him a wink. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I agree with the lady,” said Christopher. He took another bite of his paella. “You promised me Liquid Emporium.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t work there anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Even better! We can both sit at the same side of the bar.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo rolled his eyes. “Finish your dinner first, then. Don’t insult the chef.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finished dinner. Christopher entertained Shuri with anecdotes from his travels, many of which had been documented innocuously in his phone. Cleo had a feeling most of the photos were for investigation records, but Shuri was delighted by the novelty regardless. Dani was soon drawn into the conversation as well. Jules remained silent, but Cleo caught him glancing at the screen a few times. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher was easy with his family. Cleo had paid less attention during their first encounters, but he really was a charm around anyone. He smiled a lot. His laughs sounded genuine. He paid attention to what was said and made the effort of an engaged comeback to every line. Cleo could see that Shuri liked him, a lot. Dani too—so much that she dusted aside Cleo’s hand when he tried to tidy the dishes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Drinks, bro. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Drinks.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why did he have a feeling she was trying to help Christopher out in...particular things? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo let her cover clean up duty and went upstairs to change. He slipped on one of his nicer beige shirts and some unstained jeans. He even fixed up his hair. Mostly it was for the destination. The Emporium was a nice spot and he didn’t want to look out of place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They walked out to Christopher’s motorcycle. It felt like a lifetime ago since he’d last ridden it. He said as much to Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet,” said Christopher. “Heard you’ve advanced about as much as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“From who? Maz?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t talk to Maz Lan,” Christopher said simply. “I heard from Yasha and Debrief.” He paused. “Didn’t mention this while we were inside, but just want you to know—I’m ears when you want to talk about it. Got more than my share of wardens dying in front of my eyes. Lost a few good friends out on the field too. Family. You’re not alone, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. He hadn’t know that Christopher had lost family. But that wasn’t a conversation to be had here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Hop on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He did. The Emporium was just a quick fifteen minute ride away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was strange to be entering the building as a customer. A few regulars recognized him and waved. The barkeepers on duty certainly did—this was his old shift. He found his eyes landing on a particular seat. But it was occupied by a woman he did not recognize. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think I’ve been here before,” said Christopher. “Couple years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a bar man?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I love myself a good bar. Just didn’t have the pleasure of frequenting yours.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not mine anymore. Let’s grab those seats.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They took the pair of open seats by the far end of the main bar. Kendra was the main tender on duty, and she walked over to Cleo with a pleasant grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, man. It’s good to see you back. Think you might be on the wrong side of the table though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo chuckled. “You might be right. This is going to take some getting used to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just two or three cosmos, man. No brandys, though, haven’t made many of those in while.” She winked. Cleo’s heart skipped a beat. Seth, she meant—he’d stopped coming. But—hell, why did Cleo even care anymore? That man was out of his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendra nodded at Christopher. “This a date? A friend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A friend,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A date,” said Christopher simultaneously. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kendra laughed. “Well, I’ll let you two sort that out. What can I get you to ease the convo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have what he has,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll have your signature, then,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two Revere Cosmos, coming right up,” said Kendra. She duck back to mix the drinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher propped an arm on the table and eyed Cleo. “You really wouldn’t consider this a date? I’m not the mage after your near-death experience anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You go this hard after every cute guy you meet?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Christopher. He smiled, and while it was partially flirty, the curve was also sweet. “Just after beautiful warm-hearted prodigies with a real sense of family and a knack in the kitchen. I said it before. I know a gem when I see one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. He opened his mouth to respond—</span>
  <em>
    <span>not what I’m looking for right now, not interested.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But he stopped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first time he turned Christopher down was because Cleo hadn’t the space to consider possible attraction. It was in the aftermath of a rape attempt, then a murder attempt, then the whole revelation of magic. Now that time had passed, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>see that Christopher was very attractive. Not just that, but good-hearted. Even Maz had said so. He was good with Cleo’s family, if that one dinner was anything to judge by. And unlike mundane Seth or any vulnerable apprentice, Christopher was a powerful warden. Not another person that Cleo would have to worry himself over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The only problem was—well, everything that had happened after Tianjin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mentioned that you don’t talk to Maz?” said Cleo. “Why’s that?”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher frowned. “Very subtle, Cleo. Hm. Well, the short answer is because he got my parents killed. Don’t really want to get into the long answer here. Later, maybe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m...sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s no problem.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fell into a brief pause. Kendra returned with their drinks. Christopher flashed her a winning smile, dusting aside his earlier somber in an instant. It really was a handsome smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sipped his drink. The sugared, faint hit was lovely. He glanced over at Christopher, who was merely gazing at his own glass. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not going to drink?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the one drink you owe me,” said Christopher. “I’m trying to figure out how to rack up your debt before this one goes away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo half-frowned, half-smiled. “You’re really persistent.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher shrugged. “Of course. I grew up being told I’d capped my luck at legacy status. That I’d never hit above D Grade or rank in the Annual. They said, when I started practicing, that I would be little more than the cleanup crew. When you want to do something, when you want to have something, you have to hold on and never let go.” He quirked a smile. “Unless, of course, you tell me straight that this bothers you. I’ll stop.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart skipped a beat. He turned to the glass of his drink and sipped again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The alcohol did not help. Christopher was…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was hard to beat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not that I want you to stop,” Cleo said at last. “I’m just not sure I’m good for a relationship.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t sound like a no to me. Am I right?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sipped his drink again, buying time. Or avoiding a response. In his peripheral, Christopher finally picked up his drink and downed a mouthful. Then he leaned forward.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How about this, then? Not a relationship. Just comfort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not what I…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked. Christopher’s smile was as warm as ever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I’m being presumptive when I say this. But you’ve been feeling alone. Haven’t you? You have to be. This whole world of mages and horrors is a new burden on top of the one you already have at home. And you can’t share it with your family. But they’re all you have in your life, because you’ve made them the center of your world.” Christopher reached a hand forward. He did not touch Cleo. He just laid open his palm, like an offer. “If you need a friend, I can be your friend. If you need a little more, somebody to hold, someone to keep you warm, I can do that too. We won’t talk about anything beyond that until—unless—you’d like to. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo searched Christopher’s soft, earthen eyes. They looked honest. That was Cleo’s weakness— unqualified kindness. And even though he knew that if he said yes, he would create expectations, Christopher was all too right. Cleo was lonely. Not categorically. But there were parts of him that had been neglected for a long time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitantly took Christopher’s offered hand. Christopher smiled. Cleo’s pulse raced, intermixing with the alcohol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s been a while for me,” he said softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I understand,” said Christopher. “My place?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher downed the rest of his drink in a single draft and hopped off his seat. He tugged Cleo along by their clasped hands. Cleo stumbled off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait. I still have to pay for the—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a fifty dollar bill. He tucked it on the counter under his empty drinking glass and knocked the counter, catching Kendra’s eye and nodding toward the bill. He turned to Cleo and said, “Now you owe me two drinks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed, feeling somewhat pleased beneath the gesture. He downed his own drink, then let Christopher pull him out of the bar.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warning - explicit content</p><p>Also, I'm v sorry about the delayed update! But, here's a triple chapter update.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Monday | May 24, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The night air felt colder than it had been when they drove to the Emporium. Christopher’s body felt warmer in Cleo’s arms. He clung on from the back of the motorcycle, barely processing the passing cityscape. All he could register was his own pounding heart. Or was it Christopher’s pulse, flush against his own chest? Zero to eleven—that was how it went. Accepting intimacy was like opening a floodgate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They soon arrived at Christopher’s downtown apartment, red brick illuminated by streetlight and moonlight and the citylight refractions from the falling snow. Last time Cleo had slept with someone had been in a building like this too. Back in college, early sophomore year—a budding relationship with a clever Econ major that ended after Cleo dropped out. Not that it would have worked anyway. But the sex had been very good, for both of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced nervously at Christopher’s silhouette as the man led him upstairs. Now that they had come this far, Cleo worried he wouldn’t be what his partner was looking for. In his college days, it used to always be sex first—easier to walk away without hard feelings if the night didn’t go well. But Christopher clearly had more invested expectations.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked down and exhaled. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>want this. And if Christopher ended up changing his mind, well. He’d deal with it. It wouldn’t be the first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Here we are,” said Christopher, ushering Cleo into his apartment. It looked just like he had last seen it—eccentrically artistic, with a touch of neoclassical goth. Christopher tugged off his shoes and slid them atop a rack. Cleo did the same. “Want a beer? Glass of water?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Water, thank you,” said Cleo. He still felt the intoxication of his cocktail. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wandered into the living room, gazing over the framed photographs. About a dozen decorated the walls. Most were of people, places, from all over the world. Each had something off about them—something not quite natural. One was of a cracked vase, with some pieces suspended in a physically impossible manner. Another was of a strange, warped tree whose leftmost branch ensnarled the skeleton of a bird. Then another…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher walked to Cleo’s side and handed him water. Christopher had a glass of beer himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Intrigued?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m trying to figure out what I’m looking at,” Cleo said about the photo in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A shopping glass reflection,” said Christopher. “The disembodied shadow you see here is a horror.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. “Caught on film?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. It’s a rare occurrence, and you won’t ever find them directly apparent. Like that one, over there?” He pointed to twin humanoid shadows in a lake, but only one man stood at the bank. “Of course, I tell my visitors it’s photoshop. Or long exposure photography techniques.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you take these?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “No. My parents did. It’s what I have left of them, so…” He shrugged and drank his beer. He turned to Cleo and slipped on a languid smile. “Might tell you more in the morning. I’m in a simpler mood at the moment.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. Christopher’s smile broadened. He took Cleo’s free hand and pressed a chaste kiss to his knuckles, and then nodded toward the bedroom door.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took a last drink of water before leaving the glass on the counter. He followed Christopher into the bedroom, where the decor was not so haunted. A pair of bedside lamps flickered on at a flick of Christopher’s fingers, casting a low golden hue, an appropriate ambience. Cleo wandered to the bedside, running his palm along the soft burgundy sheets.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your favorite color?” Cleo asked idly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher walked over and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose it is. It looks good on me, doesn’t it? It’s rich. But not boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped at Cleo’s side, almost as close as they had been on his motorcycle. His hand traced along Cleo’s forearm. Cleo’s gaze flickered over the man’s chest, his own pulse ridiculously high. What was this schoolboy reaction? It </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>been too long after all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” Cleo muttered. “I’m nervous as fuck. Can I use your bathroom first?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled and stepped back. “Out the door, to the left.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo went. He took a minute to collect himself, ease out his nerves—embrace the flutter and faint heat in his gut. Images of the man next door flashed in his head. Yes, he did want this. He really did. Intimacy, warmth, pleasure—everything. But the closer he got to it, the more afraid he became of rejection—almost as scared as he had been his first time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But, that had worked out, hadn’t it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, fuck it,” he muttered. “Just give it a shot, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He left the bathroom. He found Christopher playing with his phone and speaker in the bedroom, low vibrational music filling the space. Christopher had changed as well. He now wore only a pair of dark, loose joggers. The rest of his body was bare, revealing chiseled muscles and the magnificent tattoos painting his alabaster skin. A full-bodied dragon writhed from his hip to his throat. Spanish roses and quotes lined his right side. A decorated cross curved with the muscles of his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to Cleo and grinned. “Feeling better?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” He gestured to Christopher’s body. “A little more self-conscious than I was before.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You? </span>
  </em>
  <span>Self-conscious?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is the part where you compliment me, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed, rounding the bedside to where Cleo had paused. He placed his fingertips just beneath Cleo’s chest, his eyes glittering as he gazed down. “I have to admit, Cleo. Back in April, with the skeleton? Had some trouble keeping my magic up when I got a good look at you.” Christopher lowered his head and glanced at Cleo’s lips. “You’re stupid gorgeous. Now, can I kiss you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled and hooked his fingers around the band of Christopher’s pants. He pulled the other man forward and lifted his head to meet those lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s arms encircled him. He was a good kisser, immersive, vanishing Cleo’s nerves for a moment to the taste of liquor and the heat of lust. Hands traveled across Cleo’s body between the kisses—first, stripping away his shirt, then his belt, then his trousers and socks. Christopher clasped his hands around Cleo’s waist, his fingertips teasing the band of Cleo’s thin shorts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pulled his lips away, searching for Christopher’s expression. Hazed, heated eyes gazed at his face, not looking down. Before Cleo could speak, Christopher spun him around. Cleo pressed his arms against the wall and shivered as lips peppered his throat, his shoulders. A hand ran slowly from his shoulderblades to the small of his back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher leaned flushed against him again, tilting Cleo’s face back for a kiss. Cleo’s pulse rose as Christopher’s hands folded over his belly, as one traveled beneath the band of his underwear. Then Christopher went still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo swallowed and glanced over his shoulder. “Disappointed?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s hand moved again. His fingers slid further between Cleo’s legs, stroking his sensitive sex. Cleo breathed a faint gasp. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” whispered Christopher. “No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you’re so wet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relief and lust swept over Cleo. He gasped again as Christopher pressed himself against Cleo’s ass, as he felt the thick, hard, honest bulge. His head swam. He turned and pulled Christopher’s face down for another passionate kiss. Christopher wrapped his hands around Cleo’s thighs and hoisted him up, carrying him to the bed, dropping him over the sheets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stripped away Cleo’s shorts next. Before Cleo had the chance to undress Christopher, Christopher gave Cleo one intense look, then dove between his legs. His mouth left a trail of suckling kisses down Cleo’s inner thighs, toward the dripping heat between them. It had been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>long </span>
  </em>
  <span>time since a man had done that for him. Cleo clasped a hand over his mouth and dug his fingers into the sheets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The pleasure was intoxicating. It dawned on Cleo, in some distant part of his mind, that Christopher must have been with women before. He was simply too talented—enough that Cleo’s ragged breaths slipped into quiet moans. Just then, Christopher stopped and grabbed Cleo’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his mouth. Cleo looked up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could shiver at that gaze alone. He felt so </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could let me know if I’m doing a good job,” Christopher said breathily, smiling. “Flatter me, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Very good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t think. Fuck.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “Like this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reached a hand between Cleo’s legs—slid a finger inside. Cleo curled his toes. “Mm. Something like that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pushed in another finger and leaned down, kissing Cleo’s lips briefly. He pulled back to watch Cleo’s face as his fingers moved, curled, began to thrust. Yes, he was definitely experienced with women. It didn’t take him long at all to find Cleo’s weakness—didn’t take him long to have Cleo curling into the sheets, barely holding it together as the motions deepened, quickened, the wetness audible. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher wrapped a hand loosely around Cleo’s tight throat. He leaned down and kissed Cleo’s cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me hear you, Cleo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo released a muffled sound. “Fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you’re wrecking me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? Can you come like this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded, his eyes shut. Christopher kissed him again. Soon Cleo was tremoring, clawing for something to hold onto, whispering a string of strangled curses. It had been too long. Far too long. His body could not handle the deliberate, overwhelming heat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus,” whispered Christopher. “You’re so fucking perfect. Come for me, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>—!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grasped Christopher’s wrist. Christopher grabbed his shoulder. Cleo squeezed and shuddered and moaned, the high of it all leaving ghost shivers in his body. His vision blurred when he opened his eyes. He had not come like that in years. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he whispered at the ceiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He searched for Christopher’s face. Desire still fired his evergreen eyes. Christopher smiled, pleased, and lifted his slicked fingers to his lips. A ripple of new heat ran beneath Cleo’s skin as he watched the man suck them clean.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Warmed up?” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo laughed. “Oh, god. I can do one more round. For you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I like to hear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it turned out, that one more round lasted quite a long time. Christopher took his slow, sweet time fucking Cleo, and by the time he was done, Cleo didn’t have even the energy to stand. He somehow managed a trip to the bathroom to clean himself up. He somehow managed to find his phone—at two percent battery—and let Dani know he would be home tomorrow. Not that she was likely to read it until the morning anyway. Then he gladly climbed into bed with his lover, who had already changed the sheets with a wave of his magic hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind if I use your charger?” he asked Christopher, who was tucked in and gazing at Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go ahead.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo tugged the charging wire out from behind the bedside table on his end of the bed. He plugged in his phone and placed it on the tabletop. He paused as he spotted the decorative statuette beside the lamp. A pearly female figurine.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cracks ran deep along its shape. Cleo frowned and reached out to touch the head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had put only the slightest pressure when the integrity of the figurine collapsed. The pieces broke along the cracks, crashing loudly to the table and the floor. Cleo jerked back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher shifted upright. “Cleo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—sorry, it just—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher hopped off the bed and walked to the shattered figurine. He gave Cleo an amused look. “Slip of the hand or stray magic?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it was broken before I touched it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher frowned. “Really? Huh.” He waved a hand and the figurine reassembled itself. “Might have gone overboard with the trust, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. He was too exhausted to worry anyway, too warm and comfortable and happy. He slipped under the sheets. Christopher turned off the lights.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sleep came in seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rested dreamlessly, deeply, until he was drawn into the fringes of a vague dream. Sand swept over his bare feet and summer heat cradled his skin. Peace filled his heart. Somewhere behind him, jewelry jangled softly. The taste of sweet incense and cinnamon lingered in the wind, the signature scent of a familiar. And just as Cleo turned to see who, his dream slithered away to waking. Faded beneath a gentle touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A graze of his cheek. Fingertips, skimming the locks of his hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He frowned, still hazed from sleep, and reached for the hand. He brushed warm skin as it withdrew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blearily opened his eyes. It was still dark. But he could make out Christopher’s silhouette, fast asleep at his side. Not even facing him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo jerked upright. He looked behind him. There was no one there. Nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had he imagined it?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Had it just been a part of his dream?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced back. He’d woken up Christopher. The man shifted upright and yawned. His eyes were thickly lidded with sleep, his voice tired. “Had a bad dream?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe,” said Cleo. “Is your apartment warded?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher rubbed his eyes and appeared more awake. He flicked his hand and turned on the lights. “Not as thickly as your house, but yeah, it is. Why? Did you see something?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. “I might have just imagined it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher placed a hand on Cleo’s shoulder. “I’ll take a look around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher swung off the bed and pulled on his joggers and shirt. Cleo dressed too. The clock on the nightstand read 3:24 A.M..  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ten minutes later, after checking all the rooms of the apartment, the halls, and even the street, Christopher said he found nothing out of the ordinary. Cleo felt embarrassed—and deeply grateful that the man had been so thorough regardless. At the same time, a nagging feeling lurked at the back of his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher poured him a glass of water and joined him on the living room couch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m guessing you don’t want to go back to bed?” said Christopher.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sure I can fall asleep again,” said Cleo. “Too many thoughts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m listening if you want to share.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was quiet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is about Quannan, isn’t it?” said Christopher. “I heard the gist of it in Debrief. That’s the kind of nightmare that leaves you with PTSD.” He paused. “They never did get into detail on how you escaped, though. Said it was classified. Have anything to do with why you’re worried about my wards?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Sure you want to know what happened?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here for you, Cleo. Said I’ll be what you need. Meant it. Yeah, I want to know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took a drink of water, thinking carefully about what he meant to say before he spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You remember the entity that saved me in October. The one that healed the hole in my gut. I’m pretty sure the same thing showed up in Quannan. Right as Lingfei was about to finish me—or capture me—he fought her off and got me out of there. Didn’t say much to me, didn’t hurt me either. Left me once we reached the main road. But...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think it’s still keeping eyes on you now,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See,” said Cleo, “that’s what I’m not sure about. Because if he was worried about my life and watched me 24/7, he ought to have intervened much earlier in Quannan. Lingfei had multiple opportunities to kill me in the blink of an eye. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>only </span>
  </em>
  <span>appeared after she burnt off half of my arm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lifted said arm. Not a scar lingered. Not a pore was out of place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was drawn momentarily back to the hand cupping his cheek, the gentle hushes as he healed. But he shoved the softness away quickly, recalling Maz’s words about heartless calamities that mimicked warmth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He turned her into a horror. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span> “My theory,” said Cleo, “is this entity has some kind of reactive tracer on me. When I am physically hurt, he’s alerted to it. Otherwise he’s off doing his own thing. I don’t know, Christopher—what </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>calamities do in their free time?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Depends on the type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘Cultivated’ calamities?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked surprised. He resumed his normal expression quickly. “Cultivated is just another word for old as stones. If you’ve been around in this world long enough, you probably sleep a lot. Get up every once in a while to scratch an itch, fill an empty belly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled, finding some humor. “You think I could be the pig that hasn’t fattened yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s possible. You could also be a prospective vessel. Some cultivated calamities are said to switch vessels every few decades or centuries for the pure novelty. You could </span>
  <em>
    <span>also </span>
  </em>
  <span>just be someone the calamity’s taken a liking to.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Maz has opinions on that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Christopher’s tone soured. “Well, whatever he said is probably right. When I say ‘liking’, I mean it in the sense of a child taking a fancy to a new toy. There’s no compassion. No connection. It’s pure intrigue and pleasure. You could be a TV series it doesn’t want to end just yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Whatever his reason is, he’s attached himself to my life. I don’t know, Christopher. I don’t think he’s keeping a constant watch on me, but I think I felt him earlier.” He sighed. “I don’t know what his motivations are, so I don’t know if I’m putting you in danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me?” Christopher laughed. “I’ve dealt with worse, Cleo. I can handle the danger.” He sobered quickly. “More importantly, I hadn’t known that the entity after you was a cultivated calamity. I’d assumed a Dancer, honestly, maybe out to recruit you. Actually, I’d assumed House Morpheus took care of it by now. But now…” He shook his head. “Gotta say, Cleo, even if last night was the worst sex of your life, I don’t think I’m gonna be letting you out of my sight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled. Aside from the humor, he felt comforted by those words. Assuaged by Christopher’s confidence. He pulled at the fabric of Christopher’s and kissed his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was, actually, very nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher slipped his hand around Cleo’s waist. “Yeah? You know, if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to try to sleep again, I’ve got a pretty effective remedy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you keep sleeping pills in your cabinet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “No, but I’ve got pistachio nuts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the cabinet. They’re an effective aphrodisiac, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo laughed. “Christ. I’ll pass on the pistachio nuts. Don’t think I need them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned and carried him off to bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half past nine, Cleo woke from a better, longer sleep. No dreams that he could remember, no ghostly hand. He smelled breakfast, and when he had dressed, found Christopher cooking in his joggers. Cleo admired him from the doorframe before he was asked to help set the table. They ate tostadas with coffee over some relaxing morning music. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll upgrade the wards this evening,” said Christopher. “You can get a good night’s sleep here whenever.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re heading back to the Institute for the day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Going to check if investigation made any progress on that trail.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mind if I come with?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned. “I didn’t take </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>for the clingy type.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo rolled his eyes. “Please, Christopher. I’ve got an interest in the Dancers too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher peered at him for a long moment. “That’s not all you have. Why do you really want to come?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Been thinking a lot. Not sure I can get what happened in Quannan out of my head. Not sure I’m going to at peace with it until Lingfei’s caught. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>chasing vengeance, to be clear. I have my family to think about. But with that calamity pinned on me, I can’t be relying on you and Maz and whoever else to protect us either. These field experiences are the best way to grow, no? I know, I’m more or less asking you to babysit me…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not it, Cleo. Really, I’d be happy to go with you on missions. But—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The ones you’re tackling are dangerous.” Cleo nodded. “If you think it hits a grade too high, I’ll hang back. I’m not out to drag you down. But I’m a little more pressed than your average apprentice to grow, and I’m not sure that anyone other than you and Maz get that right now. And he…” Cleo sighed. “Well, for personal reasons, I don’t think I want him picking my missions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Personal reasons?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded and said nothing more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher leaned back. “Alright. You can come with me as long as the danger’s manageable. But you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>have to promise to do whatever I say. Not like last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo frowned. “I was pretty compliant last night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You gave me a lot of trouble about asking for it nicely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Let me come. With you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “Now how am I supposed to say no to that? We’ll wrap up breakfast here and stop by your place. If there’s a lead, we’ll leave from the Institute right away. If not, we’ll pick up a fun assignment. Sound good?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very good. Thanks, Chris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Christopher</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He propped an elbow on the table and leaned forward. “If you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to give me a pet name, ‘babe’ works. Or ‘honey’, ‘darling’, ‘apple of my eye’...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo wondered where their talk last night about keeping this </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a relationship went. He wondered when he started to care less. Seemed like whatever he’d been afraid of felt just a little smaller. Or less important.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, pistachio nuts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher made a face. “Sounds more like something from a highschool bully.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t that a popular trope? The bully and the victim. I used to read those net stories when I was a moody teen and imagine </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>bully was secretly in love with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They probably were. Tell me more about moody Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talked leisurely through the morning. At half past ten, they cleaned the dishes and prepared to leave. Cleo had the first-time pleasure of watching Christopher dress—and realized that under the mage’s jacket, strapped surreptitiously to his back, he wore a pair of engraved long knives. The same knives he’d used to exorcise Breuston’s skeleton, probably. Cleo had wondered where those knives vanished off to—turns out they were tucked behind his back this whole time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drove back to Cleo’s house, where his siblings were absent for school—all except Dani, who was in the interim break before her summer internship started. She looked pleased to see them together, even more pleased when Cleo nodded to her question about having a good night. Actually, Cleo hadn’t seen his sister this excited in a very long time. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He </span>
  </em>
  <span>hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They returned to Andronicus through Cleo’s portal. It was early evening in the Mediterranean, and a good scattering of folk wandered the halls. They recognized Cleo but talked more about Christopher, treating him with the same admiration as they did Maz—minus the nervous intimidation. Christopher greeted a few faces as well, smiling at everyone who glanced his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out on the island road to the main building, Cleo said, “You’re popular for a House rival.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dionysus and Morpheus aren’t much of rivals these days,” said Christopher. “We are, in fact, the two lowest ranking Houses. By no fault of mine, to be clear.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was just about to ask.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My priority is locating the heart of the Souldancers. Sadly, it’s not something I draw a lot of points from. Similar to your mentor, no? His priority is hunting an elusive god.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quiet moment passed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo? You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pulled himself out of his heavy thoughts and hummed. “Sure, yeah. I was just thinking—calamities supposedly don’t feel love—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, yeah. They feel lust, right? The same kind of lust we feel?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I imagine it’s similar,” said Christopher. “Lust is one of those emotions that walks the line of malicious intent. And calamities, horrors—they’re formed from lingering malice. Some horrors are made </span>
  <em>
    <span>of </span>
  </em>
  <span>lust. Calamities are a little more complicated, but because of that complexity, almost all of them are guaranteed to have a streak or two of lust within them. The only difference between them and us is that their lust is no longer fueled by a biological drive.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They don’t feel physical pleasure?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They can, if their vessel is a biologically operational human body. But the lust that drives them would primarily be psychological. Possession and dominance. That kind of thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More silence. After a moment, Christopher stepped closer to Cleo and clasped his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Worried about the monster pinned on you? Don’t. If it shows up and eyes you the wrong way, I will personally shove its dick up its ass. Assuming it has both. And if it doesn’t, I have other creative methods to neuter it permanently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo chuckled. “Thanks, Christopher. But no, I was actually just thinking—it doesn’t all quite flow logically. Horrors form from the potency of human malice, but there are only a few rare types of human malice that are inherently evil. Or that is how I understand it. Things built from anguish, grief, pain, even desire—they are the balance on the spectrum. As fundamental to our existence as passion and love. Once you unravel that pain, that grief, what you’re left with is a deeply feeling...person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If they’re still alive, yes,” said Christopher. “But a horror is, how do I put this, spiritually knotted in their own pain or grief. That is what gives them the magnetism to become horrors. They can’t be unraveled. Just released.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what about calamities? They form from spirits that are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>knotted enough to become horrors. They form from conglomerations of those spirits, so even if their instinctive drive is dark, they should be so much more complex than this incorrigible evil we talk about.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher was quiet. He tucked his hands into his pocket after moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe on a theoretical level. But incorrigible evil is all we have ever seen from them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because that is all we ever expect from them?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher stopped walking. He peered at Cleo, surprised. Even Cleo felt suddenly uncertain about his defense. Maz’s words replayed in his head. He cursed himself for being naive. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But was it naivety? Should he dismiss it so easily?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Should he just buy into what these more experienced wardens were telling him?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because if they were wrong, then their exorcism of calamities...it was not release. It was murder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want to believe in the calamity that saved you,” Christopher said softly. “Because that would mean neither you nor your family is in danger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo paused. Christopher was not exactly on mark. But maybe it was better that the mage believed it so. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” said Cleo. “Am I so transparent?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I understand.” Christopher began walking again. “It’s frightening. I can’t even imagine </span>
  <em>
    <span>how </span>
  </em>
  <span>frightening. But that’s all the more reason to keep up your guard. Anyway, Cleo, I honestly never thought much about calamities and how they work. Don’t think I need to. My biggest quarrel is with living, breathing humans, and that’s already bad enough. An evil act makes an evil being—that simple way of looking at life means we don’t need to go around making excuses for others or ourselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded and let the topic fade. Soon they reached the research wing of the main building. Just as Christopher located his investigators, Cleo got a call. From Maz. He let Christopher know and stayed in the hall while the mage dealt with his business in the office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I heard you’re back on campus. Feeling better?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave of guilt swept Cleo. Maz had no accusation in his tone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Much, yeah. Sorry I ignored your last call. I, um. Thought you’d be more upset with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz chuckled. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’ve been more tolerable than I was in the past. I assume Christopher is with you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>The same little birds who told me about your return mentioned you had company. So how did he convince you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He didn’t. I pressured him into bringing me to his next missions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah. I see. Just keep me updated then</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked, surprised. “That’s it? No questions asked?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I trust Christopher. He is capable and sensible.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t like you very much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, well. I never said it was a two-way street. In any case, Cleo, I still expect to resume our lessons. Thursday, at the usual time, I will be waiting for you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Yeah, I’ll be there.” He paused. “Uh, Maz?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, Cleo?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. For being patient. Again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz sighed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, well, spare me the third time, okay? Have a good trip. I’d ask you to tell Christopher I said hi, but…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo chuckled. “I get it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They bid their farewells and hung up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Cleo made to enter the investigators’ office room, Christopher walked out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got something?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got an address,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do I still get to come with?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s a family address,” said Christopher. “Nothing dangerous. I had my friends ID a photo from an abandoned Dancer base. Doubt she’s a warlock herself, but she should give us some interesting insight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So it’s an interview. Where are we headed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned. “Kiev. Ukraine.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning - scary stuff</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Tuesday | May 25, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A portal in Dionysus took them direct to central Kiev. Cleo did not feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>as </span>
  </em>
  <span>displaced from reality when he stepped onto the city streets—the modern urban features were a far closer resemblance to metropolitan Boston than the rural town of Quannan. But he still paused to take in the sight: pastel buildings in the lamplight; wider roads, wider streets, thicker greens; cyrillic script marking the signs and advertisements. And he was not the only one staring. Passersby peered their way as if tourists, tattoos, and mixed-Asian men were an anomaly in these parts. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher was probably used to the looks from his travels. But even if he had wanted to pay them mind, he was quickly distracted by a </span>
  <em>
    <span>ding </span>
  </em>
  <span>from his phone—come no sooner than they had taken two steps along the street. Christopher halted and scanned his device, humming once as his fingers flickered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, shit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighed and started walking again. “Change of plans. We’re taking a detour to Vasylkiv.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What for?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s been a recent horror report,” said Christopher. “Board automates alerts to wardens when we’re in the vicinity of an open mission. Needless to say, cleaning up a hazard takes priority over interviewing a happy family, much as I would love to just check that box and give you a merry tour of the city.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the grade?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“B,” said Christopher. “Fresh one, apparently. I’ll send you the report. You can take a look while I hunt down a cab.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that was what Cleo did. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horror in Vasylkiv was suspected to be the remnant of a psychiatric patient, a Ruslana or Danylo Kolesnyk—or both. The two had been twins. According to their biodatas, Ruslana was institutionalized after the attempted murder of her brother’s girlfriend; Danylo followed her fate shortly after for a separately diagnosed form of severe schizophrenia. While the pair was in treatment, they began in what hospital records described as a ‘hazardous and depraved incestuous relationship.’ It was not your typically love story, because three years after their institutionalization, in late April of this year, Ruslana killed Danylo. The report contained a few images stripped from the security film—a gruesome and slow disembodiment. Apparently, she ate parts of her brother, and then slit her own throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The news was suppressed by institution heads. Nothing came to light until the Institute’s wardens dug deep into the mess—after an inexplicable fire started in the asylum, consuming over half its patients and several workers as well. That was three days ago, while Cleo was practicing bunnies in his shed. The survivors had been evacuated and some oddly mutilated bodies recovered. No one had been back inside since. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo saw each scene vividly—the murder, the suicide, the powerless, terrified victims of the fire and ghostly assaults. The provided images made it worse. Christopher seemed to notice his nausea and rubbed Cleo’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You okay, love?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God. Fuck. What the hell were the doctors and staff doing? Jerking off in their offices?” He bit his lip, a rush of anger overcoming the disgust. “It should have never gotten to this point. Let alone the psychiatric treatment—this was an </span>
  <em>
    <span>equipped institution</span>
  </em>
  <span>. She dismembered him over the course of an hour, on camera!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Cleo, I know. It’s sick as hell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Kolesnyks were sick, </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally </span>
  </em>
  <span>sick. But the people that let this happen? The ones that still don’t give a shit about the mentally ill in this day and age, not their recovery, not their safety?” Cleo looked aside and shook his head. Said quietly, “That kind of malice is worse than the kind we hunt. Apathy and indifference.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fingers touched his cheek. Cleo looked up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher gazed down at him, his soft eyes out of stride with the disturbance in Cleo’s gut. To his surprise, the mage leaned down and kissed his lips, right in the middle of the city street. Not too far away, a passerby muttered a phrase that sounded quite derogatory. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was that for?” Cleo asked as Christopher pulled away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher tapped Cleo’s nose. “Wanted to take your mind off the dark stuff. You’re right, Cleo. But this kind of tale? Wardens have to deal with them day in, day out. It’s a hard life if you let it get to you too easily. It’s a harder </span>
  <em>
    <span>afterlife </span>
  </em>
  <span>if you let it cloud your own spirit. So you, me, we’re going to head over to the haunt. And I want you to remember—we’re here to do a good thing. We’re gonna put some spirits to rest. We’re gonna save a lot of people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Right. Positive thoughts.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You got it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher hailed down a cab soon afterward. It was a fifty minute drive to Vasylkiv from central Kiev, during which they avoided the topic of the impending exorcism and resumed their idle morning conversation about childhoods. Cleo felt his own was happily mundane, for the most part; Christopher, the son of two wardens, seemed to have the more interesting tales. But Christopher also asked an endless stream of questions, so Cleo had little opportunity to pry about the mage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cab dropped them off in the suburban outskirts of the city. Their destination was the asylum itself, a charred, aloof structure located on a slopping hill, beyond two stained white gateposts and high metal fencing. The gate entrance had been padlocked, so when Christopher and Cleo reached, Christopher bowed and stepped aside. Cleo touched the cold chain links of the lock, willing them to unwind. Seconds later, they were in. No one bore witness—the cab driver had quickly driven off and the other buildings on the quiet street were generously distanced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impressive,” said Christopher. They started up the hill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Christopher. If that was all I could manage, you wouldn’t have brought me along for this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I heard about your improvement. But seeing it myself is different. You know how long it took me to master basic manipulation?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Two years.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. “Seriously?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously. Nobody thought I would amount to anything but a ghostcleaner, if even that. Honestly, though? I wasn’t so much out to prove them wrong as I was to prove my old man right. Think I did him proud.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at the mage. Christopher was gazing at the ruined building ahead, walking beneath the whispering trees and eerie moonlight, but he wore an expression far warmer than the atmosphere. Cleo reached for the his hand. Christopher blinked, then grinned, clasping their fingers together for the stroll.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An unromantic walk, to be sure. As soon as Cleo looked forward again, the chill of the asylum sank in. The building had been white before it was burnt. Old stained white, like the gateposts. Four stories tall, an unceremonious block of a building with peaked green roofs in an attempt at adornment. Now ash streaked the sides of the building like a lingering wash of black rain. Windows were cracked and smashed, revealing pitch darkness aside shattered reflections of the moon. For what had been such a devastating fire, though, the integrity of the structure itself was surprisingly intact.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Cleo would not want to destroy his own home either. Just vanish the intruders. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He extricated himself from Christopher’s grasp as they reached the locked entrance. As before, he willed the heavy double doors apart. Faint resistance pushed back on him—not the weight, not the locks. Something else. He paused with the doors opened just a crack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, definitely haunted,” murmured Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You feel it too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm. Can’t miss it. The whole air here is wrong.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The channel. Cleo recalled Liesette’s words outside the Tianjin apartment—the presence of horrors created a disturbance in the Tapestry. He tuned into his own. And sure enough, like a sixth sense, he felt it. Like the inaudible pitch of a radio just at the fringes of human frequency. Like the faint static of an old television. The hairs on his skin prickled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. The hinges creaked. Ashen air blew out from the entryway. Hints of piss and copper lingered in the aftertaste. Cleo stared at the unlit foyer with distaste.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a plan?” he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Simple,” said Christopher. “Bait and hook. Fresh horrors are voracious. We set foot in there, it’s not going to want to let us leave alive. But we’re smarter, faster, and stronger, so who’s the real hunter? Just keep your wits about you, Cleo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you hold a light?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo opened his palm. Instead of fire, he conjured an illuminating orb he had seen Kendi do in the Tianjin apartment. It cast light on the damaged foyer, where the remnant soot and charred furniture and collapsed floorboards created asymmetrical, jagged shadows. Cleo thought he glimpsed motion at the top of the main stairwell—but maybe that was just his imagination, playing tricks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher stepped inside first. Cleo followed. He had no sooner taken two steps than the doors slammed shut behind him. He jumped and hissed, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher turned around and gave Cleo an amused look. Embarrassment burned his ears.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No flicker. Nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher was talking about the light orb. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo snorted softly. “Guess it helps that I expect to be scared shitless.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Disturbance is thicker upstairs. You want to take lead?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not really, but Cleo went ahead anyway. The stairs looked like they would hold. He stepped carefully regardless, ready to spell at any second. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They made it to the second floor. Cleo was beginning to get the gist of Tapestral reading—he could feel a heavier density of disturbance here, like the static had grown from the entry point. And it was denser yet leftward and above. He moved in that direction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The further down the hall he walked, the more the corridor seemed to swallow him. He tried to not be afraid. He tried to remember that Christopher was with him, that this wasn’t a movie where the threat was some unknown paranormal entity. But it was the asylum. The ash and emptiness in the middle of the night. The stains on the patches of unscarred wall, remnant pieces of the human neglect that had gone on in this place. Everything was just...spiritually dark.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon he reached the closed doors to a stairwell connecting all four floors. He pushed. The doors cracked open, then hit some obstruction behind. He pushed a little harder. A putrid scent slithered through the opening. He paused and glanced down, his blood going cold even before he saw it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Guts. Dried guts hanging over a torn stomach.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. Keep it together. Keep going. Compartmentalize. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nudged the body with his shoe, pushed it out of the way. He opened the door and stepped into the stairwell. He eyed the corpse—a woman’s corpse, split open from throat to belly. Eyes still open.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher joined him. Christopher glanced at Cleo’s face, then cut in front of his line of vision and grasped his arm. Cleo looked up, feeling on the verge of vomiting. Not from the gore. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was today,” he whispered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The body had no burn marks. And the blood was just beginning to congeal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher nodded. “We’ll report this to the authorities after we’ve cleaned up the horror. Someone will come take care of her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo swallowed and faced the stairs again. They kept going up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the last set of steps to the fourth floor, he paused.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you hear that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whispers. Indistinguishable murmurs in Ukrainian. Hisses like a constant urge. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like Danylo,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The schizophrenic brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo started walking again. Christopher caught his arm and stepped ahead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll take front from here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They reached the fourth floor. They entered the corridor. Unlike the floors below, a thick scent of blood overcame the ashen air. And there were dark patches on the walls that did not look like soot. The sixth sense, the disturbance, the static—it was practically screeching. The whispers built as well. And then, suddenly, as they stopped before a door marked Room 417—all came to a hush. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Deathly silence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked back at Cleo. Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher opened the door to Room 417. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clinking echoed from within. A woman’s low humming. The orb from Cleo’s palm was slow to illuminate—as if absorbing more than just natural darkness. But eventually, it cast light upon a lone silhouette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An old woman sitting in a chair, within a small bedroom. She was knitting. She was knitting with long bloodstained needles. Knitting a quilt that seemed to wrap some round object within. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She continued to hum as if she had not noticed them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christ,” muttered Christopher. “Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>another </span>
  </em>
  <span>grandmother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman stirred at his voice. She went quiet. She looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bloodshot eyes stared at them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A chilling smile curled on her thin lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A glint of silver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The needles!</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo dropped his orb light and lunged forward with an outstretched hand. Midair, well on their way to hurtling through Christopher’s skull, the twin needles disintegrated into silver dust. Christopher tilted his head, glancing over his shoulder to say something to Cleo—and then the horror vanished from her seat. Not quite teleportation—Cleo could see the blur. Motion. He reconjured his light just as the woman stopped a breath away from him. She flashed a predatory grin and poised her clawed fingers to strike—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she vanished again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A crash echoed through the room. Ash shuddered in the corner, where the horror now laid. Christopher dusted his hands. Cleo’s heart hammered. It had all been so quick. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like it’s our lucky day,” muttered Christopher. He did not sound pleased. “One for each of us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One for each?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s eyes dropped to the stir of motion in the middle of the floor. The quilt. It had fallen, unwrapped. And within it laid a pale, dry head. The head of another old woman, whose eyes were pinned on Christopher. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Seeing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus fucking Christ,” whispered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Things seeped out from the severed throat of the head. At first Cleo thought it was blood. But it was solid. Like the legs of a spider—and quickly, exponentially, it began growing into the naked figure of a thick, tall man, horrifically disproportionate to the old woman’s head on its shoulders. It was Danylo’s body. The brother had possessed the head as a vessel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which meant that his sister—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was the intact old woman, now punching into the wall where she had fallen. One blow was all it took to rip a hole. Like a slithering rat—</span>
  <em>
    <span>faster </span>
  </em>
  <span>than a slithering rat—she crawled through that hole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t let it escape!” shouted Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo left the brother to Christopher and ducked out the room to chase. His chest pounded, the sudden action vanishing his earlier fear of the asylum. He thrust open the adjacent room’s door by force of magic—heard another crash, saw the tail of the horror vanishing into the next room down. He ducked into the room it had just left and ripped down the entire wall, sweeping a gust of wind to clear the dust. Bloodshot eyes met his gaze—and then the debris of the collapsed wall came hurtling back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His light went out again. He lifted his arms and conjured a protective windshield. A door slammed open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dodged back out into the corridor—spotted the horror just in time as she leapt for the broken side windows. Glass—vulnerable. Cement—breakable. Metal—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He conjured metal to fill the rectangular space of the window. The horror ran into it and fell back with a hiss. She was upright in a split second. Cleo was just about to bind her in a metal prison when she stomped her foot down. The floor beneath her fell apart, and she hopped through the hole.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No time to curse. Cleo dove right after her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He landed on his hands and feet. He glanced down either side of the corridor—felt his sixth sense flare. He twisted just as the horror dropped down from the ceiling, pinning him against the floor. Her claws dug into his shoulder, tore through the padding of his shirt and jacket. Mad eyes and delighted teeth leered down at him as the pressure threatened to pierce his skin. She clamped a claw around his throat and squeezed, sadistic pleasure drawing her mouth open in a silent moan as he writhed in pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Destroy the vessel. He had to destroy the vessel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was already dead. Just a horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a vessel for malice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shut his eyes and pressed a palm to her chest. He envisioned explosive force. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horror screamed and rolled off of him. He scrambled upright, and she did the same. A huge hole gaped in the center of her torso, sizzling with crisp heat. But still she moved and glared. The hole quickly began to heal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lifted his hands for another round. Just then, the ceiling behind the horror shattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher fell through, landing agilely on his feet. He looked entirely unharmed. Untouched. His breath was not even labored. Just as Cleo felt the relief, so too must the horror have felt the fear. She glanced between the two of them, and then she lunged for the windows again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo did not make the same mistake twice. He conjured the metal barrier again. This time, it slid across the full wall, the floor, the ceiling—and either ends of the corridor. It encompassed them in a long, sealed box, pitch black. He conjured a new orb of light as well, pleased to see the horror stumble back to the center, stumped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now that,” said Christopher, “is </span>
  <em>
    <span>impressive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The horror shuddered. But it was not a shudder of fear. Instead like the brother, her form began quickly to morph—into a gorey, skinless, beastly humanoid creature taller and larger than either of them. With massive new claws, she lunged for Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In a blink, Christopher cut off her path. Same blur of motion. Inhuman speed. He threw a fist into her gut, and she went hurtling back against the metal wall. She recovered quickly, lunging again on all fours. And again, Christopher stopped her—grabbed her by her bloody arm and slammed her against the side. She swiped at his head with the other claw. He dodged without a sideglance, reached under his coat and jacket—pulled out his engraved knives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He severed her offending arm first. She howled and struck with the other arm. He released her and danced back—but that was just the start of the final choreography. In a series of deft, fluid motions lasting no more than three seconds, he slashed through the horror six more times. She wailed and fell to floor, shrinking back into the withered form of the old woman. She did not heal. She did not move again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now,” said Christopher, “may you rest in peace.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo released the metal prison. He released his orb light too, letting the moonlight illuminate the still corridor. The Tapestral disturbance of his sixth sense was gone. All that remained was his own untethered adrenaline.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s knives sizzled. The blood on them evaporated. He sheathed them and turned his attention to Cleo. “You okay?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That was…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher stopped at his side. He pressed a spray of blood away from Cleo’s cheek. “Scary?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced up at him. Moonlight—it was a frightening accent on Christopher’s pale skin. And after witnessing what the man had done, Cleo ought to think </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>scary. But his voice was soft and apologetic, so it was not like Cleo could admit he’d been unsettled more by Christopher than by the horror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where did you learn how to move like that?” he said instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tiny little temple in Kanazawa, Japan,” said Christopher. He pulled out one of his knives and brandished the engraving. “Got these there too from a retired master.” He gestured to the body on the floor. “Normally, you have to burn these vessels to destroy them. Or reduce them to smithereens. Seven slices from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shinigami </span>
  </em>
  <span>blades will expel any spirit. No exceptions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s gaze fell to the old woman again. Judging by her torn clothes, she had been a patient here. You’d have to be dead, or on the verge of death to be vulnerable to possession. So this old woman had died here or laid on her death bed alone, apart from family. What a painful passing. What a cruel fate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We should do something with the bodies,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can lay them out in the foyer,” said Christopher. “I’ll give the local authorities a call. Maybe they’ll go back home to their families.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded, not saying that the woman before them probably had no family. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They combed through the asylum for bodies and discovered eight more, alongside some charred, indistinguishable corpses. Afterward, so that they could walk the streets without terrifying passersby, they spelled the blood off their clothes. Christopher contacted the authorities, then used the number plastered in their earlier ride’s seat to call a cab. Cleo didn’t say much. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure you’re okay?” Christopher asked on the walk to the gate. “We can talk about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hummed. He was quiet for another moment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I guess,” he said at last, “when I asked for growth, I was not thinking about destroying human bodies. It’s hard to convince myself I’m doing a conscionable thing when their faces are human.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighed. “Honestly, Cleo? I didn’t think I’d be a butcher either.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I was not thinking of it as butchery, per se...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The way wardens traditionally exorcised was by holy fire. White fire—intense and instantaneous. Most still practice it now. My parents did, and it looked so…clean. It invoked a sense of true release. Because that’s what exorcism is. Release.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you use the knives.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because I can’t make fire, Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stopped at the gate. Christopher faced Cleo with a faint smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve been practicing for fourteen years. And in two months, you’ve got leagues beyond what I have achieved on the tier scale. You are a prodigy, yes. But I am also a very weak mage.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The truth,” said Christopher. “I can manage first tier manipulation. And thanks to my master in Kanazawa, I can manage physical enhancement and essential healing. Only for myself. I used to exorcise E Grade ghosts with oil and a lighter. The first time I ever exorcised a C Grade was with the blades, and it happened to be a corpse. And yeah, Cleo. When I asked for strength, I wasn’t thinking about cutting apart human bodies either. I felt like a monster.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked, his lids fluttering without closing. Guilt throbbed his chest—that he had, even for a moment, seen Christopher as monstrous when he slashed through the horror’s vessel. He didn’t know what to say. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher held open the gate for Cleo. He waited until they were walking along the road again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tomorrow,” said Christopher, “a trio of teenage boys will come by this place. And like all teenage boys, they’ll be foolish and dare each other to break into the building. Now whether you burned the vessels, or sliced them apart, or dismembered them piece by piece—those boys are going to live because you put living spirits before corpses.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not a prediction. It was just imagination. But it provided Cleo the perspective he needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced at Christopher. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You </span>
  </em>
  <span>did. You saved them.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher flashed an easy smile. “Couldn’t have done it without you, babe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not true and we both know it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>might </span>
  </em>
  <span>have slowed down the pace. You didn’t come just to watch me beat shit up, did you? Had to give you something to do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. He could feel the strides he’d made today. Strides that would have been impossible if Christopher had insisted on protecting him from every possible harm. No doubt it was a leap of faith—the horror </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>have clawed out Cleo’s throat when he fell to the second floor, and then Christopher would have to live with that for the rest of his life. But it was a leap that Christopher had been willing to take. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because it was what Cleo needed. And to give him what he needed was exactly what Christopher had promised. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped walking. He reached for Christopher’s sleeve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s smile seemed to melt his eyes. He stepped close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve met so many people in this line of work, Cleo. So many brave and good people. But you...there is something different about you. There’s no arrogance in your talent. No resentment in your giving. No darkness, not even a shred.” He tucked a stray lock of Cleo’s hair behind his ear. “People like this...you just want to be by their side. So thank </span>
  <em>
    <span>you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Cleo. For trusting me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled. Searched his eyes. Christopher—he was warm, resilient, in all respects, near perfect. If these first days of their acquaintance was not the golden facade, if they were honest reflections of what would come in the future, then it really did not seem so bad to have this man in his life. To maybe one day love him. To feel…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was this comparison he was searching for? What was this ache in his chest?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>moved, are we?” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked down. He hadn’t realized he’d clutched his hand over his heart. He quickly dropped it, heat rising to his cheeks. He turned and hurried a few steps down the street so Christopher couldn’t see his face. A chuckle followed, warm and endeared. His own fingers reached for his collar, trailing over the skin, searching for something that was not there.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning: more sexy time</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Wednesday | May 26, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They waited until morning to interview Sofia Yvanov. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>At 6:18 A.M., Ukrainian time, Cleo and Christopher boarded the metro from their Kiev breakfast bar. After a sleepless night of mostly dark-alley tourism, the drone of the subway was spell-like. Cleo fell asleep on Christopher’s shoulder, not to awake until they arrived at their cross-city stop. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This began, Christopher had said in the idle night, as a simple horror exorcism in the frozen city of Yakutsk, in Eastern Siberia. What should have been a quick clean hit turned into a long chase through the adjacent mountain range, which revealed the isolated cabin home linked to the horror’s past life—along with a buried log of congregated warlock activity in the area, over the course of the last decade. The spirit’s exact human identity was still unknown, his involvement with the warlocks ambiguous, his motives just as blurry. But the report came back to the Institute from Apollo’s wardens, and Christopher received word the same April evening he escorted Cleo home from his first Institute visit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dropped everything and traveled to Siberia. The Institute had few portals in the area, so for Christopher, it was a long solo excursion through the ranges and the tundra, investigating as many of the logged incidents as he could to locate the probable Siberian base. In the end he did find a base—a long abandoned base, burnt to the ground and buried beneath the snow. But among the residue had been a small tin box of sentimentals, preserving a wedding ring and the photo of a teenage Sofia Yvanov.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yvanov was in her mid-twenties now. A web designer who worked from home. Her apartment was located a five minute walk from the station, and by the time they reached the entrance, their translator was already waiting—a blond fellow with two eyebrow piercings and a nosering, one they’d met at the club a few hours ago. He greeted them with a tired yawn and stomped out his cigarette.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know why it’s have to be this early in the morning, </span>
  <em>
    <span>drazi</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Would charge the extra, but I guess you tip in eye candy, eh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher fished out three thousand Ukrainian hyrvnia and passed it over. “We appreciate this. Harder to find a willing translator than you’d think.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guy scoffed and pocketed the cash. “Yeah? Think how more harder it is to find good work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I bet,” said Christopher. “Let’s head in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They followed Christopher’s lead. A row of apartment intercom buttons lined the sidewall. He pressed </span>
  <em>
    <span>108</span>
  </em>
  <span>. A man’s voice answered in Ukrainian.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re looking for Sofia Yvanov,” said Christopher. The blond guy translated. “We’re from Interpol. Investigating the disappearance of an Ivan Petrova. We were hoping Ms. Yvanov could answer a few quick questions about some relatives or friends who might be involved with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo cocked an eyebrow and mouthed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Interpol</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned and shrugged. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few seconds passed. The man on the line grunted something reluctantly. The door buzzed open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, they were welcomed into the apartment of Sofia Yvanov and a fellow who looked like he was getting ready to leave for work. Yvanov was an attractive small woman, polite in greeting them with a reserved smile as she cleaned a dining table. The man was sterner. Did not appear related. But his shoes occupied the same rack as her shoes. Spouse or lover, probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man cleared his throat and said something to Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants to know if you have ID,” said the translator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Understandable,” said Christopher. He dug up his wallet and passed a card to the man. After a moment, the man nodded and handed it back. Cleo caught of glimpse of the blue letters </span>
  <em>
    <span>INTERPOL</span>
  </em>
  <span> and made a note to ask about it later. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man said something else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He wants to know how long this will take,” said the translator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.” Christopher reached into his pocket again and pulled out an old ring. He’d shown it to Cleo last night—the ring he found in the tin box. “We want to know if Ms. Yvanov could help us identify the owner of this ring.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman came forward. Her eyes slowly narrowed as she took the ring from Christopher’s palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked up and murmured softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where you got it from?” said the translator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We found it at a site related to Mr., uh, Petrova’s disappearance. Among some of his private belongings. We’re thinking the owner of that ring might have been affiliated with him. She or he might be in the same danger as our missing person, so it’d be best if you tell us everything you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia looked down at the ring, cradled carefully in her palm. She answered. She glanced at her likely-lover mid-sentence, then closed her hand around the ring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The ring is her grandmother’s,” said the translator. “Passed down to her mother, and was promised to go to the fiance her mother approved of. But her mother died from the cancer eight years ago.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And her father?” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia shook her head. She looked up and responded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She does not know the father,” said the translator. “Was extramarital affair. Do you think it could be this Ivan Petrova who went missing?” The translator looked at Christopher. “She’s asking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That, um…” Christopher scratched the back of his head. “It’s possible, certainly. We’ll try our best to locate him and keep you updated. Of course, it helps us too if there’s anything you can remember about your mother’s relationships. Or any older male visitors in your life?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shook her head again. She said she recalled nothing of the sort—said that as far as she knew, her mother never took up any relationship with men after giving birth to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo piped up. “I’m sorry to ask this, Ms. Yvanov. But was your mother, perhaps, in pain before she died? Did she suffer much?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia was quiet. She started for the couch. Her lover lingered close to her side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She answered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was bone cancer, she said. They were slow to diagnose the cause and could not afford the treatment. But because Sofia was young, giving up did not seem like an option. They held out hope, and the churches told them God would see that their endurance was worth the pain—it was a trial she would pass. In the end, it was just a slow, agonizing death. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If you want to know if anyone came to see her on her deathbed, said Sofia, it was only herself and her grandmother, who passed shortly after as well. As for any kind of lover, anyone who might have reason to possess her unused wedding ring—nothing. Not even a flower on her grave. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve received no benefits since you lost your mother?” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia hesitated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Her school tuition,” said the translator. “That was paid for. And maybe her mother’s child support. She is not sure. She lived good growing up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ever been in danger? Ever been saved </span>
  <em>
    <span>from </span>
  </em>
  <span>danger?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia shook her head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Well, would you mind if we took a sample of your hair? DNA tracing. He might be in a database.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia complied. Cleo scanned the apartment. It was on the messier side—busy, with boxes strewn about. Empty package boxes stacked by the door. Fresh flowers filled three recycled bottles. Some opened envelopes and cards laid on the kitchen counter. A series of photos on the wall, one of a younger Sofia next to her beautiful mother. Then his eyes caught on the wallside annual calendar. September 25th, 2021. It had been circled and starred. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s happening in September?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They followed his gaze to the marked calendar. Sofia grasped her lover’s hand and answered with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was her wedding day, she said. Seemed that they had come just in time with this ring. Maybe it was meant to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Congratulations,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The couple thanked him. He turned to Christopher. “Think we have everything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher nodded. He told the couple to keep the ring and left them his number in case anything came up. They bid their farewells and left the building. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out on the street, the blond guy crossed his arms and scoffed. “Interpol, eh? Times do be changing when </span>
  <em>
    <span>Interpol </span>
  </em>
  <span>need strays like me to translate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher smiled and forked over another thousand hyrvnia to the fellow. “Thanks, Ivan. We’ll see you around.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ivan winked. “Sure hope so. Take care.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They started toward the station. After the fellow was out of earshot, Cleo said, “The Institute provide that ID?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yup. I’ve got one for the US’s FBI, the UK’s NCA, and seven other sovereign agencies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seriously? Sign me up.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed. “You have to earn warden certification first. Which, honestly, shouldn’t be all that tough for you. Just need to pass the written and psyche exams. Physical exam’s a hassle, but you’ll knock it out of the park. Speaking of which—heard through the grapevine that you’ve been looking for a martial arts instructor for you. I know a pretty good one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He winked. Cleo smiled. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Maz </span>
  </em>
  <span>has been looking. Thought you didn’t talk to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t. But when he asks for so much as his shoelaces, people talk. Anyway, Cleo. What do you think?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think I’ll try your patience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then it’s good I’ve got boatloads to spare.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo couldn’t decline. Far as pure physical ability went, Christopher seemed head and shoulders above anyone else, Maz included. Besides. He liked being around this man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They boarded the train. Morning rush hour was beginning to hit. Without much space to sit or stand, Cleo found himself sandwiched tight between the subway wall and Christopher’s chest. Not a bad way to ride, honestly. Maybe in more ways then one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel Christopher’s mind similarly edge down that road, now that the official business was over. His forearm pressed casually against the wall, just beside Cleo’s head, caging him in. Christopher leaned a little closer than was necessary, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Warm breath swept over Cleo’s skin. A warm gaze flickered between his eyes and his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo felt other eyes on them. There were many in this subway compartment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re staring,” he said quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” Christopher glanced sideways. He didn’t look like he cared. Rather, he turned back to Cleo with an even wider grin. “Jealous old fuckers. Ignore ‘em.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lowered his gaze. He ought to ignore them, yes, but the homophobic disgust was nearly palpable. He didn’t like the saturation. Didn’t like the way they looked at Christopher. It made him feel sad, angry, small. Small against the clockwork system that perpetuated this kind of irrational judgment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He placed a hand on Christopher’s chest. A gentle, intimate gesture. Small ways of fighting back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I ask you something?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you chasing the Dancers so adamantly? There’s a story, isn’t there?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aside from the fact that they’re a ticking timebomb?” Christopher sighed. “Yeah, there is.” The subway ducked underground, roaring over the tracks. Christopher paused until it quieted, then started again. “Back in ‘06. The year I started at the Institute. A Dancer named Jakob Macalester was tearing through our ranks like a damn shark. He occupied the Middle East—Lebanon, Syria, that region. Every time a warden got sent in for business, they never came back. Vanished from the face of earth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit. The Institute ever get him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher nodded. “Took us the better part of a year, even though we knew damn well exactly where he was. Our top hit squads couldn’t handle it. Lost three of them—full teams. But we couldn’t just let him be, not after everyone he’d killed. That was around the time Maz Lan was MIA. Well, in October, we finally got in contact with the bastard, and he agreed to join the big mission.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighed. Cleo recognized the expression on his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your parents were a part of that mission.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher nodded. “They were. Yeah. It had been planned, </span>
  <em>
    <span>timed</span>
  </em>
  <span>, everything. But Maz fucking Lan—God knows what he was doing when the operation was supposed to start. They couldn’t delay, so they went on without him and hoped he’d show. And, you know, I was home that day. In class. Just waiting for the news. So they told me afterward. By the time the </span>
  <em>
    <span>hero </span>
  </em>
  <span>finally showed up, Macalaster had wiped the whole vanguard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher, I’m so sorry…”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher shook his head. “It’s not about vengeance, Cleo. Macalester’s dead. Maz Lan brought back his body. But not my parents. When I say ‘wiped’, I mean just...</span>
  <em>
    <span>poof</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Every warden that vanished in Macalaster’s territory—there is </span>
  <em>
    <span>no </span>
  </em>
  <span>trace of their bodies. Not even ash.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think the Dancers have them?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. Maybe the fucker ate them. But I want answers. The others who’ve lost someone to Macalester—</span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>want answers. So, you know, that’s your answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was quiet. The subway rolled to a stop. Passengers exited and entered. Cleo regretted that he’d made Christopher divulge such a heavy tale in a place like this. He should have known before he asked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re attending the wedding, then?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yvanov’s wedding,” said Cleo. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>She </span>
  </em>
  <span>might not have noticed a watcher in her life, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been around. He might show up for this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Assuming it really is her father. Thing about warlocks—they can’t have children. Anything </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>deeply intwined with death and the Tapestral weave can no longer create a new living spirit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So he was human when he conceived Sofia,” said Cleo. “Could it be anyone else? The mother’s ring </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>the daughter’s picture?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a likely explanation, no.” Christopher paused. “Why did you ask about the mother, anyway? Think she could have been a horror?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was just an idle question. But…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, only mages can become warlocks, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s true.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, the father—let’s call him Ivan—Ivan was probably a mage when he met Mrs. Yvanov. If we consider Mrs. Yvanov’s situation, she’s a woman who’s held on to a marriage ring her entire life, who never had a relation with another man after her daughter was born. It’s hard to raise a child alone. And I don’t think she wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>capable </span>
  </em>
  <span>of finding a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She was a good mother. She raised a good daughter. And she was attractive. I agree with that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. So what, exactly, kept her from finding a partner? She could be gay. In which case, Ivan might have forced himself on her. But then how did he come by her ring? She certainly wasn’t wearing a wedding ring before marriage—</span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>mother probably had it at the time, just waiting to pass it on to the right guy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think Ivan was supposed to be the right guy.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. I think she loved him. So much that she couldn’t see herself being with anyone else after he left her. And I think he loved her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why did he leave her? She was </span>
  <em>
    <span>pregnant</span>
  </em>
  <span>. With his daughter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe he was attracting horrors. The life of a mage is dangerous, and I’d rather my loved ones live without that danger. If you weren’t a capable warden, Christopher, I would have never gotten into your bed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe </span>
  </em>
  <span>he was keeping her out of danger. Now, let’s say all this is right. At some point between falling in love with this woman and today, he became a warlock. Why would he do that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher gave Cleo a half-smile. “You tell me. You seem to be pretty good at this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could be because of the classic evil. Or maybe it was because she had cancer and he didn’t have the power to save her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Or </span>
  </em>
  <span>maybe because she became a horror. All that pain, all that loneliness without the man she loved, all that trust in divinity, all that useless preaching from the church—just to die anyway? I think she could have easily become a minor horror. And then what would Ivan do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher was quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think he was a warden,” said Cleo. “I think he would have gone to them for help before the cancer killed her. I think he was an unregistered mage. He didn’t necessarily equate exorcism with release, or maybe he thought there was still a way to save her. Maybe the Dancers found him then, maybe they found him later. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe</span>
  </em>
  <span> she is the horror he invited into his vessel.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think I could have come to that conclusion,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a conclusion,” said Cleo. “Just a thought. A story to consider, if you see him at the wedding.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still. You’ve got a clever way of thinking. Ah—no, clever’s not quite the right word.” Christopher seemed to deliberate. “Empathetic. You’ve a very </span>
  <em>
    <span>empathetic </span>
  </em>
  <span>way of thinking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled. “I like that much better than clever. Thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher mirrored him. Despite the somber topic of their previous conversation, the intimate air from before came easily back. Must be those warm eyes. The space within the compartment seemed to condense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, the train arrived at their stop—a block down from the portal apartment. The Andronicus mage who occupied the apartment was out for work, but she’d given Christopher the passkey. They returned through her bedroom closet to the Mediterranean, House Dionysus. But because Christopher had left his motorcycle at Cleo’s house, they made the rainy trek to House Morpheus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was nearly 2 A.M. in Boston. Another rainstorm raged past Cleo’s window glass, where he’d left the shades open from the morning. He pulled them down so that he could change out of his soaked clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should stay the night,” he said to Christopher. He glanced at the bed. “It’s big enough for two.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned. “I’ll take you up on that offer. Mind if I shower? After you, of course.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was late. They were both wet and cold. Cleo shrugged. “Shower’s big enough for two as well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah? What a lucky coincidence.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo chuckled. “Let me grab a change of clothes for you. Go on and hop in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo didn’t have clothes that fit Christopher, so he tiptoed to Jules’s room. His brother didn’t break his deep snores as Cleo tugged out sweatpants and a long-sleeve from his drawer. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>probably </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t miss the clothes. But Cleo would be sure to give his deep belated thanks in the morning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he returned to his own room, Christopher was already in the shower. The sight of his naked body, slicked beneath the heat mist, instantly sent a pang to Cleo’s lower gut. He stripped and hopped in as well, and was welcomed immediately by warm hands wrapping around his waist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rainy cold vanished. He hummed in comfort and leaned against Christopher’s chest, enjoying the sliding touch. Up along his sides, his chest, his throat. Fingers combed the water through his hair, pulling his head back for kiss. Fingers skimmed over his nipples, teasing them hard. He moaned softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gorgeous,” murmured Christopher. “You sound gorgeous.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo felt himself blush. He also felt the length above his ass, thick and hard. He reached behind and wrapped his fingers around it, feeling Christopher’s grip loosen. He turned around and peered up at Christopher’s hazed eyes. Grinned and spoke over his lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want me to take care of that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled and squeezed his ass. “Yeah, baby. That does sound nice.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pecked the man’s lips and sank to his knees, the shower water dousing him like a hot rain. He kissed Christopher’s length next, then took him between his lips. Despite not having a dick himself, Cleo was not without experience. As it happened, all of his past lovers had taken a fancy to fucking his face, and because he liked to please, he had learned to be very good at it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher groaned. He interrupted Cleo briefly to push back the showerhead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look at me,” said Christopher as Cleo took back in his length. “There you go. Oh, fucking beautiful.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo reached for Christopher’s hand and guided it to the back of his head. Christopher curled his fingers in Cleo’s hair and pushed him gently. He began to thrust into Cleo’s mouth. Cleo reached his free hand between his own legs, gazing up as Christopher murmured a string of pleasured words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It did not take long for Christopher to come. His grip tightened on Cleo’s hair and pulled him suddenly back. Christopher grasped himself as he spilled, the drops splattering Cleo’s chin and throat. Cleo stood up and wrapped his arms around the man, pulling him in for another kiss. Before it ended, Christopher slid his hand down Cleo’s belly and curved his fingers between Cleo’s legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo grasped his wrist and pulled back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m good,” he said, smiling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher frowned. He looked like he wanted to protest. But it was getting late, and Cleo dodged back under the showerhead before he could be made to change his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were in bed moments later. And Cleo was asleep within seconds. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dreamed, perhaps because of the shower, of a waterfall in a forest. Another vivid dream, where the scent of lush earth overpowered. He was washing in the mist of the fall, washing away mud and grime and sand, feeling once again, deeply satisfied. At peace. And again, he was not alone. Strong, thick arms wrapped around him—rich copper, sunloved. He tucked against the span of a broad torso, so chiseled his shoulderblades could feel the dip of those muscles. He wanted to just melt from the happiness. His heart could burst with it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Some part of him knew it was a dream, and he did not want to wake, so he closed his eyes. His lover shifted behind him, pressed a kiss to his cheek. One that was sweet incense and cinnamon, intermixed with—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo opened his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bedroom. Sunlight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jolted—and nearly collided with those lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned down at him. Pecked him anyway. “Did I surprise you? Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo rubbed his eyes and processed consciousness regretfully. But why was he regretful, exactly? His dream...it was already slipping out of reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve noticed something worrisome,” he murmured tiredly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a morning person. I’m a night owl. This might not work out after all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “Habits can change. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>be a morning person. It’s much healthier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hummed. The hand that had slipped beneath his shirt was stroking his side now. Very distracting. But quite effective at waking him up. Still, he stalled a little longer, pretending to drift back asleep. Christopher tsked and pinched his nipple.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ow! Chris!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pinched again. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Christopher</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pistachio nuts,” muttered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher twisted the bud between his fingers. Cleo hissed this time, drawing up his legs at the painful pleasure. Christopher leaned close and nipped his ear. His tone changed when he murmured next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Had a nice dream last night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. You remember when we first met? You asked me if I would tie you up and drive you off. Well, I did. Tied you up and made sweet, sweet love to you in the back of someone’s car.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Someone’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>car?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Kind of hard to fuck on a motorcycle, you know. Can try it sometime though.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo groaned in partial annoyance. He really wasn’t a morning person. But Christopher’s fingers were still rolling over his nipple, and his voice was just...very...provocative. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments later, he was naked. Christopher was naked. Christoper was looming over him, holding his thighs apart, rolling his sex over Cleo’s slicked entrance. He definitely had an aggressive streak this morning. He definitely had a good dream. Because some time along the way, he’d used his borrowed long-sleeved shirt to tie Cleo’s wrists against the bedpost. If Jules heard about this...he would burn that shirt. And the sweatpants too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This how it went in the back of </span>
  <em>
    <span>someone’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>car?” said Cleo, somewhat breathless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Almost,” said Christopher. “You were definitely louder in the car.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Any louder, and I won’t be able to look my family in the eyes for the next month.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t take much volume to get this cock in your pretty pussy, babe. Come on. Tell me how much you want it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo groaned. “Christopher…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled and nudged Cleo’s entrance with his head, not quite penetrating. Just teasing. Cleo could feel himself contracting from the anticipation, could feel the moisture slide out of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look so pretty, babe. I could do this all day, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just fuck me, please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hm? Not sure I understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Put. Your. Cock. Inside. Me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed. It was a frightening, arousing laugh—humored, pleasured, and hungry all at once. He grasped himself and grasped Cleo’s hip, and then slowly, he slid inside. Cleo opened his mouth in a silent moan from the slick, burning pleasure. It was not long before he was as lost to the heat as he had been the first night—barely able to grasp his thoughts, clinging desperately onto the bedpost for some sense of grounding. He only vaguely registered Christopher’s trail of words, his own moans and gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could feel when Christopher would come. The thrusts quickened and deepened, each slam jolting a small cry from his throat. Cleo had always been attuned to his lovers, so his own heat built rapidly as well. He came with the final thrust, shuddering when he heard the groan, felt the warmth spill deep inside him. Christopher laid a palm over his belly and milked out his last drops inside Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighed and pulled out. He ran his hands along Cleo’s shaking legs, kissed his inner thighs. Then gazed down at Cleo’s entrance, where slowly, his seed seeped out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My hands,” Cleo mumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher finally moved to untie him. Afterward, he laid beside Cleo, gently slipping his fingers inside Cleo once more. It wasn’t meant to stimulate him, so Cleo allowed it without protest. A moment later, Christopher removed and lifted his hand, two fingers now slicked with white, viscous cream.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced at Cleo, perhaps still testing boundaries. Cleo could read what he wanted. He smiled and opened his mouth. Christopher touched Cleo’s lips with his slicked fingers, then slid them inside. The taste was—well, never great. But Cleo did enjoy the expression on Christopher’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” muttered Christopher. “I kind of want to keep you in bed all day.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need to apologize to Jules about his clothes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Sorry about that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo snuggled close to Christopher and closed his eyes, enjoying the peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got me wondering, though,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it possible for you to...you know…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo opened his eyes and peered up. Christopher scratched his head sheepishly. Ah. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get pregnant?” supplied Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry if it’s an ignorant question.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo laid back and stared at the ceiling, thinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t. It shouldn’t be.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t? Shouldn’t be?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He peered over at Christopher, deliberating a moment longer. If it were anyone else, he would probably stop here. But Christopher was different. Christopher was someone he could see a future with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was born male,” said Cleo. “Biologically male.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher propped up on an elbow. “Ah. So, surgery?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Some time around puberty, my body started to change. Actually, I think it might have even started before then.” He pushed upright and swung off the bed, wandering over to his bookshelf to search for his family album. The original had been lost to the house fire, but he’d reprinted some scanned photos dating back to 1998. He pulled out the book and returned to the bed, and handed it to Christopher. “Here. Take a look.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher opened the album. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flipped past the first page. He paused on the second and third pages, which were an eight-slot spread of Cleo’s toddler years. Christopher pointed at one image of a grinning dark-haired boy with light brown eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s me,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher blinked. “You’re kidding. This looks nothing like you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was somewhat correct. The eyes in the photo were lighter. The hair was lighter. The features were...different. But children’s features evolved in many different ways as they grew. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not kidding.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo flipped a few pages, passing some with his siblings. Christopher stopped him at an award photo, one in which pre-teen Cleo held up a plaque with his name. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>you? I mean, still cute, but...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. He had to admit, he looked </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>better now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher just looked confused. He flipped through a few more pages, the ones documenting puberty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“These…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was a pretty innocent little boy,” said Cleo. “Didn’t know what was happening to me was a sexual transition until, well, an additional hole appeared between my legs. But that was after my chest had started growing lumps. The doctors thought they were tumors because my hormonal pattern was clearly male and the cells were abnormal. So my new, uh, breasts were removed. Then the rest happened, and that’s when I realized this wasn’t quite as simple as tumors. And I kept it to myself because I was scared and ashamed, and then by the time I stopped being scared because it didn’t seem like an illness, I was just ashamed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked up. His gaze softened. “Oh, Cleo. You know you’re perfect.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you. You make me feel like it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher squeezed his hand. Cleo continued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyway, to answer your original question, I did end up checking with a college doctor about whether or not I was at risk for pregnancy. She said I wasn’t. But…” He flipped to the last pages of the album, which showed his high school graduation. “That was about six months after we took this photo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher slid the photo out of its slot and held it up to Christopher’s face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look different,” he said. “Not just older, but...different. Hm. Almost a little more masculine in the photo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. Back then, he had a broader jaw and thicker body hair. Now he retained the flat chest and athletic build, a low voice that veered masculine, but the rest of him was either purely androgynous or feminine. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve stayed more or less the same for the past year. So if I’m still changing, which I don’t think I am, it’s very incremental. But, well. The doctor’s diagnosis might be different from 2015.” He scratched his cheek. “I don’t menstruate though. So I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>think</span>
  </em>
  <span> it’s a concern.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher closed the photo album. His concentrated gaze suggested he was no longer thinking about the possibility of pregnancy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This...have you talked to anyone else about this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dani and Jules know about the chest surgery. And they’ve seen me grow, of course. And the doctors  have seen me naked. But it’s in record as a natal condition.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It shouldn’t be possible,” said Christopher. “Maybe we should—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Cleo said quickly. “I want to keep it private.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But it seems like magic, Cleo. You said you were adopted. So there could be enchantment magic on your body, inside your body, and that—that could possibly have this effect. If that’s the case, we need to figure out who, and why—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher went quiet. Cleo grasped his hands and held his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Christopher. This is important to me. I don’t want anyone to know. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Institute.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher frowned. “Why? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s dangerous if they know,” Cleo said. “For me. For people I care about.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head. “Me neither, not entirely. Things have been starting to make more since since I joined the Institute. I think it’s related to the calamity that’s haunting me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think it did this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m still trying to figure it all out. So when I do, I’ll tell you, okay? Christopher, please. I wanted to tell you because I want to be honest with you. But I need this to be a secret.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, Christopher closed his eyes and sighed. He took Cleo’s hand and kissed his knuckles.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. I promised, didn’t I? Whatever you need.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pulled him into an embrace. “Thank you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the record, Cleo. You’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. So fuck norms.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled. “Not all norms. Breakfast still needs to be eaten before noon. So...let’s get dressed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Let’s get dressed.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Friday | Sep. 10, 2021</em>
  </b>
  <b></b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Spring became summer, and summer became fall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri entered the fifth grade, and Dani resumed her sophomore year after a fruitful internship with a local tech consulting company. Jules went off to college in Amherst, Massachusetts, leaving their four-person home just a little too spacious. But it was not unbearable. Christopher came by often, nearly like another member of the family. These days, his sisters introduced him as Cleo’s boyfriend to their friends. And Cleo didn’t correct them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Cleo’s training continued. He spent some days with Maz, some days with Christopher, some days alone. Not much could be said for his physical mastery; he was your average joe as far as natural fist-fighting went. But his magical mastery progressed in leaps, surprising Christopher and even Cleo himself. The only person who did not bat an eyelash was Maz, who matched his exponential growth with exponentially challenging demands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Cleo would swing by the House trainings as well, except Maz outpaced them by leagues. Cleo still learned new things from his peers, but he did it without any unnecessary magic. After all this time, the clamor about him had finally cooled and he didn’t want to rekindle the heat. They still talked about him though. He overheard his name a couple of times—whispers carried over from weekly Review, where the occasional debrief mentioned the assisting apprentice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher, as promised, had continued to bring him along on reasonable missions. Cleo had mastered holy fire with Maz in June, and not long after, he’d exorcised a B Grade in a feline vessel. He’d yet to burn a human vessel though. The last time they had run into one, Christopher took care of it before Cleo could get over his own hesitation. But one day, maybe soon, he would be self-sufficient. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Dancers were meanwhile quiet. The Egyptian calamity did not appear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life was beginning to fall into a predictable rhythm. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>rhythm, where Cleo had all the satisfactions of personal growth, mission and purpose, financial stability, a safe and healthy family, companionship, and very good sex. He didn’t think he’d been happier, minus the occasional nightmarish memory or wayward thought or ugly exorcism or existential dread that pestered him at night. And then, early evening when he was doing solo practice in a private Morpheus gym room, Christopher called. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The ringtone cut through the gentle birdsong. Cleo frowned, losing the scent of grass and trees. He opened his eyes and returned to the reality of the gym room, then beckoned his phone over from his bag. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cleo</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>big news. It’s Yvanov</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>her fiance just called. She’s been taken hostage.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Not for money.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No. They’re asking for the guys who returned the ring</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>alone.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck.” Cleo stood quickly and waved over his bag. He headed for the door. “Don’t think it’s just the father, Christopher. Not unless the horror’s warped him good. Think it’s a Dancer trap. You got a team?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I got a fucking deadline. Six o’clock sharp at the apartment. Dancer’s got the fiance at gunpoint as we speak.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced at his watch. It was half past six in the Mediterranean, so half past five in Kiev. It was a fifteen minute sprint from Morpheus to Dionysus. He hurried toward the house exit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Not sure I want you involved in this, Cleo</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“—</span>
  <em>
    <span>yeah, well, I was just about to say I don’t think I have a choice. Fiance told them it was three of us</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We can’t get the translator involved in this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I know. I’m bringing Amalia to fill the third. She knows a bit of Ukrainian.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia Bassett—the woman who’d watched over Cleo’s siblings back in April, that first time he visited the Institute with Christopher. She had joined them since on a few assignments. Cleo considered her a friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good idea. But we’re still going to need backup. If he told them three, they’re going to prep to outnumber us.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, I’ve got the House on it. Hate to ask this, but can you let Maz Lan know? Old bastard might give fuck all about us but I think he’ll stick his neck out for you.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll call him now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo ended the call and dialed Maz. It went straight to voicemail. Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz, listen. Remember that lead I told you about in Kiev? Sofia Yvanov? We think the Dancers are holding her and her fiance hostage. Christopher and I are heading over right now, and he’s got his house on backup. But if things go south, we might need your help. Address is in the Yvanov report. Call me back when you get this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hung up. He hoped to god that his message would turn out unnecessary. But after Quannan, a planned strike from the Souldancers could mean anything. They had been quiet lately. Too quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ran as fast as he could, legs propelled with spellwork. He reached the portal room eighteen minutes before the critical hour. Amalia was waiting in a glittered dress and dark makeup, looking like she had just dipped from a club. She ushered Cleo into the Kiev bedroom, where the apartment host looked extremely annoyed in a bath towel. Christopher was already downstairs, occupying said host’s car. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two minutes to six, they arrived at the apartment. A black van parked on the street, empty inside.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pressed the intercom button. Static sounded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A familiar voice squeaked over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Marko Bublik?” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No answer. They waited. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pressed the intercom again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The three shared a worried look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seconds later, Cleo heard footsteps. They looked through the door window. There he was—Marko Bublik, the fiance. Hair tousled and eyes rimmed red, upper lip swollen. Dried blood around his nostrils. More blood on his shirt. Behind him was another fellow, average height and size, appearing like he blended into the city: brown hair, brown eyes, nondescript spring outfit. The only distinguishing feature about this guy was a particularly large, hooked nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bublik opened the door and stepped into the apartment entry room. His company followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The brunette was a warlock. This wasn’t sixth Tapestral sense. He kept his magical disturbance absolutely silent. But Cleo could sense it in the calm demeanor, the sweeping eyes. Like he could slit Bublik’s throat in an instant. The brunette spoke to Bublik, who looked at Amalia. Bublik muttered something. Amalia responded in Ukrainian. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock cocked his head and stared at her face for a few seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Name?” he said, in accented English. But not a Ukrainian accent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s it matter to you?” said Amalia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock clasped Bublik’s shoulder and smiled. Bublik jolted and began shaking. “I’m simply curious.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia pursed her lips. “Isabelle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Full </span>
  </em>
  <span>name.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s heart skipped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isa—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo Sullivan,” he said quickly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock turned to him and nodded. The warlock held out his free hand. “Wallet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo handed over his wallet. The warlock merely glanced at the transparent sleeve of his ID card before handing it back. He turned to Christopher next.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher didn’t say anything. He slapped his wallet into the man’s hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man inspected Christopher’s ID and chuckled. “Well, well. Haven’t we hooked ourselves a big one? Christopher Carrasquillo.” He looked at Amalia next. “And you, Isabelle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She handed over her wallet silently. The man looked through it and grinned. He nodded at Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. Seems like your little friend here spared Mr. Bublik his fingers. Well, now that we are acquainted, your cellphones, please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do we know Sofia Yvanov is still alive?” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t. But you will take my word for it. Now, the phones.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They handed over their phones. The warlock dropped them one by one and crushed them with his heels. It would not be impossible to create a replica, but magic created a ripple in the Tapestry. The Tapestry was still at the moment. Cleo dared not risk spellwork being sensed and the fiance being harmed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the warlock was done, he looked at Christopher. “The tracker as well. Please.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher clenched his jaw. After a moment, he pulled off his watch. The warlock chuckled and shook his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Your earring.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s blood went cold. He suspected Christopher had brought a hidden tracker, because comms would be the first thing an enemy would strip before taking them to base. But he hadn’t known it was the earring. Was it the earring?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced at Christopher. Sure enough, the man was still and expressionless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock beckoned again. “Time is ticking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher removed his earring and relinquished it. The warlock squeezed it between his fingers, vanishing it to dust. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How</span>
  </em>
  <span> had he known? Magic could not detect electronic frequency waves...could it? No, the Tapestry was the realm of infinite possibility. The more relevant question was </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Follow,” said the warlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They followed him out, across the street, into the black van. Christopher and Cleo sat in the second row, Amalia in the back. Bublik sat up front. The warlock reached into the van compartment and took out a pill bottle. He shook out three and handed them to Christopher, smiling as he said, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bon appétit</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Channel blockers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked at Christopher. He hadn’t known such things existed, in </span>
  <em>
    <span>pill </span>
  </em>
  <span>form. As far as he understood, channel obstruction must be done through rune enchantment. Pills were digested, dissolved. This was, maybe, theoretically possible, but if Christopher’s expression was anything to judge by, they had yet to be invented by the Institute. Dancer engineering? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No fucking way,” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock was pulling the van onto the street now. He shrugged without look back. “Your choice. You have five minutes. After that, I kill Mr. Bublik and at least one of you while the other two </span>
  <em>
    <span>try </span>
  </em>
  <span>to escape. And then I call my pack and Yvanov goes too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or we tear out your fucking guts and feed them to you ‘til you talk,” growled Amalia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock chuckled. “You think I would be so foolish as to expose my </span>
  <em>
    <span>physical </span>
  </em>
  <span>body? To capable wardens such as yourselves? Go on and try. You’ll find nothing but shadow.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shadow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Su Lingfei had called the Egyptian calamity in the mountain forest a shadow. Maz had described them as a fragment of consciousness apart from the main vessel. A highly dangerous and advanced technique only possible for calamities and warlocks of the highest grade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A shadow?” said Amalia, shocked. She collected herself quickly. “You’re talking out of your ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Truly, my friend?” The warlock chuckled again. “We knew we would be exposing ourselves when we contacted you. We expected you to prepare. And we expected you to send your best. So naturally, we sent ours to match. </span>
  <em>
    <span>C’est moi, chérie. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Test me if you wish. But mind the collateral damage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo reached back and touched Amalia’s arm. “Don’t. Christopher—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” muttered Christopher. His fist was clenched around the pills. “Stop the van.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” said the warlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re leaving these two right here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think so, Mr. Carrasquillo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m your big fish, right?” said Christopher. “You get me alone, or you get none of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glared at the mage. He knew too many unexpected things had slipped out of hand—the exposed tracker, the potential of a shadow, the pills. He knew Christopher was at far less of a disadvantage with an obstructed channel than Cleo and Amalia, that Christopher was trying to extricate them from this mess before it was too late. Maybe rely on them to collect help. But it was going to cost Bublik and maybe Yvanov’s lives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher, he’ll kill them. Just give us—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Metal glinted. Fast as a blink, Christopher had drawn a knife and pierced it through the slit of the passenger seat. The blade sat against Bublik’s throat, now terrified soundless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The couple’s as good as dead,” said Christopher. He stared straight at the warlock, who gazed unperturbed at the road ahead. “I’ll fucking dice you both up if you don’t stop the van now. And if you’re really a shadow, then you can go home empty-handed.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stared in shock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah?” said the warlock. “So heartless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not here to play hero,” hissed Christopher, “so you’ve got five seconds to brake.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It dawned on Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher was speaking the truth. He wasn’t here to save anyone. He was here to hunt the Dancers. As he had been doing all these years—following trails instead of taking the missions that would rescue lives. Like Maz, more absorbed by his own obsession than willing to spend his time for others. Cleo didn’t condemn either of them. He understood. But when the man he was falling in love with now held an innocent person at bladepoint—a person </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>had gotten involved—he felt his gut twist in the most awful ways. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher wanted to protect Cleo and Amalia. He thought it would be worth killing for. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Cleo disagreed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A man’s life was worth more than that life. It was worth everyone and everything it touched, the dozens who would hurt and break and grieve, the weight of the bloodstains, the guilt, and the haunting dreams. One did not simply destroy that life because they were afraid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flicked his finger. The van compartment opened. The pill bottle there flew into Cleo’s palm. Before Christopher could stop him, he twisted it open and spilled a pill into his mouth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No—!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed. He capped the bottle with magic and tossed it to Amalia. “Put the knife down, Christopher.”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher stared in disbelief. Cleo reached gently for his hand and eased it from the hilt. As the blade parted from Bublik’s throat, the man began to sob. The warlock chuckled again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like this one. Sullivan?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo kept Christopher’s gaze. “No one dies today. Okay? Take the pill.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked down. He was still tense. At last he stuffed a pill from his hand into his mouth. Cleo grabbed the extra two and pocketed them. The warlock smiled and turned on the music. An orchestral CD track was playing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fell into a long silence while the van navigated the city roads. The Institute backup might have aerial eyes or otherwise on them yet, but with all the precautions taken so far, Cleo was unsurprised when they drove into a tunnel pass on the outskirts of the main city. For about five minutes, other innocent vehicles accompanied them. Then the van took a split down an underground construction site, rolling over rubble and hazard lines. The lights vanished behind them. The headlights illuminated an unpaved path.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher touched Cleo’s arm and leaned close. He spoke quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you manage to reach him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz. Cleo shook his head. “I left a message.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quiet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher wrapped his hand more tightly around Cleo’s arm, his thumb stroking gently. He didn’t say anything else—didn’t want to give the enemy any more information—but Cleo understood. It was an apology and a reassurance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stared at the warlock through his rearview mirror. Memories of Su Lingfei came back. She had been surprised to see a shadow, presumably was incapable of making one herself. If this warlock wasn’t bluffing, than he was even more powerful than Lingfei. Granted, Christopher was well above Lingfei purely on physical talent, and a pill wasn’t going to strip away his primary ability to fight. But other than that, the situations were still far too similar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Last time, Cleo’s team had prioritized his safety. Cleo never got over it—the thought that had Kendi and Ricardo stuck together, fled together, they might be alive today. Instead they split apart to protect </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and they died for it. This time, no one had made a promise to Maz. But Cleo knew that he was Christopher’s priority. And Amalia wasn’t the selfish type either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If somehow, both of them died in this mess while Cleo lived…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>No, he would not let that happen. He was not powerless yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A faint light appeared at the end of the tunnel road—moonlight. Soon the van emerged onto a grass-lined dirt path. No streetlamps. But the stars were vivid, a gossamer sky rarely visible in the urban US—a sky much like the one Cleo had admired in Quannan. Sparse trees surrounded the area, which seemed to be a rural, ill-kept village. They drove for fifteen minutes longer before coming to a stop at a distanced, abandoned church. Pastel paint peeled from the walls. Windows were coated with dust. A trio idled on the steps, playing some sort of cardgame. One, a bald teen boy, waved at the van. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And here we are,” said the warlock. “Ms. Yvanov is waiting inside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock exited the vehicle. He rounded the front to escort Bublik, who staggered onto the dirt before being tugged upright. The van door slammed behind the fiance. Christopher followed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia moved to leave. Cleo shifted his legs into the aisle, blocking her way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You carry any sharp weapons?” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia reached under her light jacket and pulled out a pocketknife. “Just this. You have a plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced over his shoulder. The hawk-nosed warlock was still tugging Bublik along. One of the fellows by the stairs peered at the van windows, but he was too low to see beneath Cleo’s chest. Cleo slipped a hand beneath the band of his gym joggers. A second later, he pulled out an undigested pill. Amalia blinked, keeping her expression neutral. He dropped the pill, kicked it under the car seat, and gestured at the pocket knife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She handed over the knife. Cleo slipped it into his pocket. A last resort. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They exited the vehicle as well, drawing a pair of whistles from the trio at the stairs. One of the men said something in what sounded like vulgar French to Cleo as he passed. Another one tried to slap Amalia’s ass, only to be smacked away by her faster hand. Cleo was hoping that would be it. The shadow escort and the three loungers. But when they stepped inside the church, his heart sank.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Tapestral disturbance was dense here. Over a dozen Dancers haunted the main hall, sitting about the molding benches like the early arrivals of a Sunday mass. In the candlelight—because that was the only illuminating light: some candles set about the chancel tables—he scanned the faces for Su Lingfei and her ‘family’. He spotted white faces, brown faces, black faces, but none familiar. Small relief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A larger relief was the woman at the front of the hall. She peered over her shoulder when the door opened. Pretty face, golden hair, red-rimmed and sunken eyes. Sofia Yvanov. She spotted her fiance and stood with a cry. Nobody stopped them as they ran to each other, gasping and sobbing in Ukrainian. Someone made a foreign remark. Someone else snickered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All is well that ends well, no?” murmured the hawk-nosed warlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sofia turned to him and pleaded, perhaps for their release. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let them go,” said Amalia. “You’ve effectively taken us captive. There’s no need to get innocents involved.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And there is no need to spare them either,” said the warlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There is,” she said. “If they return alive, the Order knows you keep your word. If you kill them, this shit won’t play a second time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You presume we need a second time,” said the warlock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you do. This lure is classic. Tale as old as time.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fair, but has it not been exploited to the point of immortality already? I kill them, and next time, you noble folk will still offer your foolish heads. Ah, the appeal of a heroic death. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>will never understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You fucked little ba—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Metal glinted. A hiss echoed through the air. Cleo, who had lunged toward Amalia in a panic, froze behind Christopher’s shadow. Christopher had deflected a tossed dagger with his blades, moving like lightning even without the enhancement of magic. The warlocks in the hall stirred with excitement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Es-tu sûr qu'il a mangé</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” said one woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ah oui</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Hawk-nose. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Je l’ai vu. C’est le Danseur Cramoisi.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another ripple went through the hall. Cleo heard Christopher’s name in the undercurrent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Et toi, Corbeau?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” said a man from the shadows. His voice was gruff, angry. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Tu n’est pas content?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk chuckled. “Well, I suppose the net was richer than we had anticipated.” He turned to Amalia. “To be clear, Ms. Bassett, we don’t have a need to spare anyone. But we are not the mindless, indiscriminate killers you make us out to be. Not all of us, at least.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said something to Sofia and her fiance. He tossed them the car keys, which hit Sofia’s chest before landing on the floor. The couple glanced at each other, seeming shocked. Then they scrambled for the key and quickly staggered toward the exit. Nobody stopped them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo waited for a scream, or something.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead the engine started. The van drove off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think we are as simple as lions,” said Hawk, starting down the aisle, “interested in nothing but feed and pride. That belief justifies our forced captivity, our mental mutilation, and if all else fails—our slaughter. Perhaps it is true for some warlocks. I don’t profess to speak for all. Merely this faction.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This faction?” said Christopher. “What is </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>faction?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk spread his arms and gestured about the dark hall. His dozen companions watched in satisfied silence—a distinctive lot to be sure. Unlike the bland Hawk, the others wore striking faces and personalized fashions designed to set them apart. Faces Cleo would remember months from the date. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>faction,” said Hawk. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Les danseurs d'âme</span>
  </em>
  <span>. We are but a modest pack of </span>
  <em>
    <span>artistes</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The true dancers of the soul.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why don’t you stop talking in riddles and tell us what the fuck you want?” said Amalia. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am telling you,” said Hawk. “Desire is not black and white. It is a web of intricacy that cannot be reduced to right and wrong. Those who become guided by desire—be it desire for greatness, for vengeance, or for love—</span>
  <em>
    <span>those </span>
  </em>
  <span>manifest the power of the universe in their unhinged souls. This world reaps what it sows. But it sows the same seeds over and over because it refuses to understand.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Save your delusional preaching for the mad,” said Christopher. “Why are we here?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Are you not intrigued?”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not a shit, you damn shit,” said Amalia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, but the little one is.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They looked at Cleo, who hesitated before saying, “He’s right.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” said Amalia. Christopher stared in disbelief. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘This world reaps what it sows.’ We create the suffering that breeds horrors and calamities. And we use our magic to address the symptoms, but not the disease. That’s what he means.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Motion stirred in Cleo’s peripheral. Thick perfume filled his air as a young woman leaned over and inspected his face. She looked like she had just come from a Victorian ball, with dusted cheeks and sleeked golden curls. She smiled on ruby lips before moving back into the shadows. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Hawk. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But enough talk. I see that your friends look at you with disapproval.” Hawk sighed. “I do not expect to cross boundaries with words alone. After all, it is difficult to free fools from the chains which they revere.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Voltaire,” said Cleo. He lifted an eyebrow. “‘Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.’ You spared Yvanov and her fiance, but we haven’t forgotten the blood on his face.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone chuckled. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>J’aime le petit. Faisons-lui d’abord.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher snarled. “You lay a fucking hand on him, and I’ll cut you to seven hells.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I believe you will try,” said Hawk. “But there is no need. We don’t intend to hurt anyone. Simply...enlighten.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had reached the table at the center of the chancel. It was covered in black cloth. The warlock removed this cloth with a dust of his hand, revealing the three small lumps beneath—three blue stones sitting side by side, resonating disruptive waves in the Tapestry. A pair of warlocks approached Cleo and his friends, one touching Amalia’s shoulder to nudge her forward. She shrugged him off and walked by herself, with Christopher and Cleo following close behind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they neared the stones, Cleo saw that they were inscribed with hieroglyphic runes. In fact, the precise resonance from them felt much like the resonance from high grade horrors. Could it be?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vessels?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed,” said Hawk. “Temporary vessels. They will have new hosts soon.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s blood went cold. Amalia made a disgusted face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>why you wanted us?” said Christopher. “To pad your numbers? You do realize you picked the wrong targets?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Because you believe you will overcome the spirits? I would hope so. After all, I would not want such raw power to be guided by pure desire. A degree of human rationality is required for any good to come about.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then what? You’ll lock us up until we become like you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no. You think too simply, Mr. Carrasquillo. I will release you, of course, after I tell you a secret.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What secret?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk smiled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That the process can be reversed. Your full humanity can be restored.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit,” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk shrugged. “Believe me or not. If you choose to let them sever your channel regardless, then you were useless to us anyway. Now, Mr. Sullivan, if you would please step forward and remove your clothes...”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher lunged at Hawk with a drawn blade. A woman—or man, actually—in all white emerged like a ghost from the air, blocking the blade with a sword of his own. Christopher perhaps meant to take Hawk hostage, buy leverage. But if Hawk was a shadow, it would be pointless. And even for Christopher, he had too many magic users to contend with. It wouldn’t work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>a good distraction though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo calculated the maneuvers it would take to escape.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>First—the dispersal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A powerful earthquake shuddered the church, splitting cracks in the ground and toppling debris from the ceiling. The warlocks leapt upright in alarm. Outside, a firework exploded. Engine sounds rumbled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo covered his head for shelter and shouted, “They’re here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone barked a command. The rain of ceiling dust thickened, extinguishing the candles. Cleo grabbed Amalia and Christopher and pulled them close. They needed to vanish underground. And then he’d stage an escape, lure out the warlocks, clear a path…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something rammed into his back, a propulsive force that sent him tumbling forward with a pained shout. He stumbled and collapsed against a bench, tried to shake off his disorientation. He heard Christopher and Amalia call his name. He heard blades clashing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Imbéciles!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The commotion paused. The candles flared back to life, light thicker than before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk held Amalia by the collar. His eyes peered down at Cleo, knowing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have a </span>
  <em>
    <span>clever </span>
  </em>
  <span>one, don’t we?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo conjured compressed air, a lash that sliced through Hawk’s wrist. No blood—his skin merely stirred like the shadow he claimed to be. But Amalia ripped away and Christopher lunged into action. Cleo summoned a maze of protective walls from the ground, splintering the church and providing them the cover to vanish from sight. No sooner than he had grasped Amalia’s wrist did the nearest wall shatter, its rubble not vanishing, but collapsing to the ground. Cleo’s concept had not given way to a stronger concept. The sheer strength of his material had—to a giant of a woman, whose arms appeared to be sheathed in granite. She lurched for Cleo’s head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher lashed through her side. She roared and turned on him. Cleo warped the shattered wall into a rocky hand that grasped the woman—but just as he did this, the white-covered man from earlier dropped from the ceiling. Christopher clashed blades with that man. Somewhere nearby, more of Cleo’s walls shattered. The lights went out. Dust filled his lungs, leaving him gasping. He could recreate the light, but outnumbered, darkness might be their only advantage—except, where was Amalia?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Amalia!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was chaos. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had no delusions. He could not hold off a dozen practiced warlocks. Even if he had the capacity, he didn’t have the composure, the strategy, the experience. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>a chance, and it slipped out his hands. How had the damn warlock even known the outside distraction was his own magic? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impressive. But fruitless.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice came from behind him. Cleo whipped around.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights returned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked, scanning for Amalia and Christopher. He found his lover first—there, lying on the splintered ground, blood on his forehead and eyes shut. The man in white was no longer in white—his clothes had been torn and he was bleeding profusely where he sat. But the Victorian ball woman had taken his place, and had a heel upon Christopher’s chest. She pointed a rapier at Christopher’s exposed throat, blood sliding down from her shoulder wound. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lunged for him, panicking. But before he had taken two steps, he heard a grunt behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned around. A wolfish, thick-haired man—the one from the cardgame trio outside—had an arm wrapped around Amalia’s neck. She was struggling against him. Hawk stood beside them, gazing at Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had best be tame, Mr. Sullivan. We do not spare mercy for those who have injured our own.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced back at Christopher. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t, or </span>
  <em>
    <span>she </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t be holding a weapon to his throat. But because she was holding a weapon to his throat, Cleo released his magic. The walls vanished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman smiled her ruby smile. “Good boy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Change of plans,” said Hawk. “We will convert Mr. Carrasquillo first. Then Mr. Sullivan. As for Ms. Bassett…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned around. Hawk smiled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She will be our insurance. So much as a stir of your magic, </span>
  <em>
    <span>chéri</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Alyse will break her neck. You understand, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced over his shoulder again. The woman had removed her rapier from Christopher’s neck. They were hauling his limp body toward the chancel now while a medic tended to the white-clothed fellow. The rest of the dozen warlocks converged to watch the proceedings. Time was running out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Last resort, then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo reached into his pocket. He pulled out Amalia’s knife and flicked out the blade. Hawk watched him with amusement. But no one moved to stop or to threaten him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>So much as a stir of your magic. </span>
  </em>
  <span> But this wasn’t magic. It was just an unenchanted pocketknife. What harm could it do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lifted his left palm. He clenched his teeth and sliced the blade deep through his skin. He swallowed a pained whimper. Red dripped to the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hawk chuckled. “What is that? Symbolism? Blood magic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked around. The warlocks stared at him, amused, confused, and shaking their heads. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was a wound not enough? Or was he being ignored? Did the danger need to be lethal?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So be it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flipped the pocketknife in his right hand and aimed the blade toward his own gut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just before he struck, a hand grabbed his wrist. A jangle echoed through the gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked up through the shadow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was his calamity.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Friday | Sep. 10, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After all this time, Cleo felt like his memory had failed him. For a moment the church vanished. For a moment he just stood and stared at the entity before him, his heart going mad. It was not fear so much as a sort of reverence. In life the calamity was a pure presence of majesty, even here in the dim, battered church—everything from his sculptural form to his regal adornments to the hallowed air around him. They said disturbances in the Tapestry could be felt—and Cleo felt it as deep as his bones. If the horrors were a rupture in the weave, then </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the threat of a storm that would unwind the very structure. That was just the echo of his being. His shadow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlocks felt it too. They stumbled back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suetekh!” someone shouted. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Comment est-il ici</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Corbeau! Qu’est-ce qu’on fait?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity gazed about his surroundings. He turned back to Cleo, his eyes still hidden by that mask. So Cleo pleaded with the ivory barrier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Save my friends. I will pay any price.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Battez!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” someone shouted. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nous pouvons le vaincre ici!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Magic stirred from the warlocks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity released Cleo’s wrist and turned around, keeping Cleo within his protective shadow. Then all seemed to happen at once. The warlock holding Amalia screamed and released her, while the ones hovering about Christopher shouted and back-pedalled from hissing snakes—four thick, black cobras. Amalia scrambled away from a fifth, which launched itself—again—at her former captor. Hawk flung off a snake just in time, but the snake morphed into a falcon and assaulted Hawk again. Meanwhile a mist that had been forming about the area began to buzz and thicken, and that was when Cleo realized the mist was a swarm of insects.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Merde! Merde! Tue-les!</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire exploded from the warlocks. Magic lashed toward them. The calamity summoned his staff and knocked back a lunging aggressor just as Amalia scrambled close. Cleo grabbed her arms and pulled her to his side. The clamor continued, a chaos in the swarm and smoke, but the calamity never left his side. Not long after, Hawk’s voice cut through the noise. It sounded like he was calling for a retreat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re leaving,” said Amalia, translating. Then her grip on Cleo tightened. “He says they have what they need.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s heart stopped. “Christopher!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pushed past the calamity and ran toward the place where he had last seen Christopher. The insects buzzed past his ear for some short seconds, then quickly dispersed. By the time the air cleared, the footsteps of the warlocks were fading out. Car engines were roaring outside. And Christopher—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laid abandoned near the chancel table. The cobra curled near him spotted Cleo and disintegrated into mist. Cleo sank to his knees, tears of relief and worry and guilt threatening his eyes as he pulled his lover’s head into his lap. No conversion runemarks on his body, and he was breathing. But he was not responding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher. Christopher!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia kneeled too. She brushed through his burgundy curls, partially matted with blood. “Head wound,” she muttered. “Not sure how bad.” She touched his forehead and swore. “Pretty bad. We need to do something. Can you heal yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo cradled Christopher’s face again, panicking at the abnormally low temperature. It was some form of shock. He didn’t have the medical knowledge.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Anklets clinked. Cleo looked up. Hope swelled as he recalled what the calamity could do—and then dread crushed it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity was holding Christopher’s blades, perhaps retrieved from the Dancers who tried to take them. He was expressionless as he gazed down. Or if he held an expression, it could not be seen. The air around him was simply colder than it had been. The Tapestral stir was darker. Cleo held Christopher a little tighter, remembering the shattered figurine in Christopher’s bedroom, hearing the echo of Maz’s warning. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Consumption. Possession. Dominance. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity knelt. Cleo shifted Christopher against his own chest and drew back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blades glinted as they were placed on the ground. The calamity offered his palm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air softened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I...think he wants to help,” said Amalia.        </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated. He relaxed his hold slowly. The calamity reached forward, but not for Christopher. Instead he took Cleo’s hand and guided Cleo’s fingers to Christopher’s temple. Some unphysical ripple of the Tapestry stirred within Cleo, as if he were a conduit for an invocation. Was it because vessel manipulation required physical contact? But then, how had the shadow healed Cleo all these times? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dazed, Cleo simply let it happen. A moment later, Christopher grunted softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At last the calamity withdrew and stood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo cupped Christopher’s face, his heart thundering. His lover was warm now. His breaths—even. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, thank god,” Cleo whispered. He looked up. “Thank—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity was gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stood, leaving Christopher to Amalia. He turned, looking around the church for so much as the hint of a shadow. But the calamity was nowhere to be found. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’d he go?” said Amalia.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know,” said Cleo. “He’s a shadow, so I assume he just…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vanished.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He do that often? Pop up when you cut yourself, like a pup come to heel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced down Amalia, who had some tired, dry humor in her voice. She was pulling the unconscious Christopher upright. He went to assist, flicking over a few broken bench pieces to construct a wheelbarrow. “This is the first time, actually.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? Seemed like you knew he’d help out.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s saved me before when I was injured, by others.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia nodded while Cleo continued assembling the barrow. “Right, well. Missed the shit by the skin of our teeth because of him, so I guess, tell Suetekh I said thanks when you see him next. Was a bit too dazed back there to do it myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suetekh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s what the Dancers called him. Unless it’s some weird cuss. Don’t know, my French is pretty good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hesitated as he tweaked the wheels. “He’s a calamity. The same one that saved me in April.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I figured.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still want me to thank him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. I mean, calamity or not, he seemed like a good guy. Like he cares about you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked up. Amalia turned her gaze from Christopher to Cleo. When their eyes met, a strange visceral comfort blossomed in Cleo’s chest. For so long he had felt guilty for every lenient thought about calamities. About his calamity. For so long he reminisced over the softness in that cave and clung to the warmth in his rare dreams, only to lash himself afterward with Maz’s angry warnings and Christopher’s doubtful lectures. This was the first time anybody took the other side. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe it was dangerous. Maybe they were both wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Cleo just wanted to be grateful for the entity that rescued not only him, but his friends. His lover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wrapped up the wheelbarrow and moved said lover into it. They started out the church.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you do me a favor, Amalia? When Maz asks about this, would you please not tell him about...about Suetekh?” Cleo swallowed. The name seemed to sting his lips. “He won’t react well. Especially to what I did. I’d rather avoid his anger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Maz Lan talks to little old </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, sure. But then what do I tell him? You handled the ‘locks? They got an emergency call and jumped ship?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The latter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Amalia snorted. “You know no one’s going to buy that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shrugged. “Depends on how we sell it. I mean, a guy lured us to an abandoned church with his shadow and a bottle of channel blockers, set up three horrors in three rocks, tried to bind said horrors to our bodies, and promised to let us go after hearing a secret—that the whole process can be reversed. It’s already a pretty wild tale.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess so. What about Christopher? Are we selling him the same story?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If Maz is listening in. I’ll tell him the truth when we’ve got a moment alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good,” said Amalia. “You know hunting down those Dancers is all the dumb boy lives for. Well, that and you, nowadays.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was quiet. He hadn’t forgotten the moment in the van.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They hurried onward through to village, just in case the warlocks lingered or planned a return. Eventually a young fellow opened his door and allowed them to use his landline. Amalia got in touch with the Institute. Minutes later—literally, six minutes later—Maz arrived. He was followed not long after by a flock of members from House Dionysus—the distressed backup that Christopher had called. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They made it back without incident. Yvanov and Bublik were reported back in Kiev. Christopher awoke during the ride through the noisy city, having lost some memory of the moments before he fell unconscious. He was otherwise well. Cleo borrowed a phone to call his sisters and let them know he would be late—lost his cell, was all. He sat through an extended debrief afterward, held in the Institute’s primary conference hall. Every House had someone of note in emergency attendance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talked about the channel blockers. Cleo had stuffed two spare into his pocket and handed them over to research for analysis. The effect was temporary—Christopher’s channel was already clearing. But it was the first time the Institute had heard about the invention.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They talked about the French faction as well. Souldancer factions were not a new concept. Such a sprawling organization could not be more cohesive than the Institute. But the only known factions were the Japanese, the probably extinguished </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aljueran </span>
  </em>
  <span>of the Middle East, and the unnamed political ghosts of the western world. No one had heard of the French. No one had heard of Corbeau—that, said Amalia, was what they called the shadow warlock. The leader. In French, it meant Raven. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So not Hawk. But a bird nonetheless. Cleo had been close enough. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the meeting was over, it was nearly midnight in the Mediterranean. Which meant it was dinnertime in Boston. Eager to return to daily life, Cleo invited Christopher and Amalia over for a meal; these days, they always cooked extra. Amalia declined, saying she had a date in Pennsylvania. Christopher had nowhere else to be—the pills were in the lab and the Dancer facial reconstructions were with investigation—so he stopped by his apartment for a quick change of clothes before coming along. Cleo’s sisters were happy to see him, as always. He entertained them with stories from earlier in the day, before Ukraine happened.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>You couldn’t tell that Ukraine had happened at all. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>good of an actor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in Cleo’s bedroom was when he broke character. Cleo was lowering the window shades when arms wrapped around him from behind. Christopher buried his face in Cleo’s hair. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moments passed. Cleo reached back and placed a comforting hand on Christopher’s arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” whispered the man. It sounded like he could be crying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no. No, Christopher.” Cleo turned around and cupped his lover’s face. No tears, not yet. But he looked on the verge of it. “If you apologize, I’ll have to apologize too. We made the decision to go, together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But I did it for the hunt, Cleo. I put you in danger because I couldn’t let go of a lead. It was a fucking miracle that we all got out of there, and that whole damn time all I could think was how I couldn’t—fuck, if anything had happened to you—</span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Cleo. Fuck.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo wrapped his arms around Christopher. Fingers tightened in his shirt, holding him desperately close. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There it was. The tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” whispered Christopher. “I love you so much.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was the first time he’d said it. And it brought a surge of warmth, but the warmth did not last. Because Cleo parted his lips to echo the same, and the sentiment caught in his throat. His chest hurt. Why could he not say it? It was true—he loved Christopher as his heart would break if he lost Christopher, as he would choose the man’s happiness over his own—but in this moment, in this context, the words would not come out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Why?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was what Christopher needed to hear.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span>? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pulled away. Cleo searched his eyes, which simply scanned Cleo’s face. He was pulled in for a kiss and spared the pressure of responding. After a moment, Christopher released him. He looked like he was going to say something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It wasn’t a miracle,” Cleo said first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher frowned, then smiled. “Well, I’m not discounting what you did, of course…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Cleo. “Not that. I didn’t want Maz to know this, but you should know. The Dancers never got a call. I cut myself.” He lifted his hand. It seemed surreal now that he spoke about it in the comfort of his bedroom. His voice quieted. “I cut myself and summoned the calamity from Quannan. He fought them off and saved us. He saved </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He healed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s expression slipped away. He sat slowly on the bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You cut yourself?” he echoed. “You </span>
  <em>
    <span>summoned </span>
  </em>
  <span>him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, he—</span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span>—is a cultivated calamity. Not a pet dog. You try to pull it around on a leash, it’ll bite back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head and sat next to Christopher. “I don’t think so, Christopher. I really don’t. I know—you all keep saying they’re creatures of malice. But if he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>another motive, he would have shown it by now. I think he just wants to keep me safe—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why </span>
  </em>
  <span>would he do that, Cleo? Even regular human beings wouldn’t go through the trouble of protecting a stranger.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe I’m not a stranger.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked down. “I—I don’t know. Calamities can shift forms, right? Maybe we’ve crossed paths before. The point is, Christopher—if he just wanted to use me, my body, my magic—or if he just wanted to consume or possess me—he wouldn’t have saved </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How did he save me, exactly?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He healed a head wound.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. So he could have slipped some ancient spell inside my body. Maybe he’s peering through my eyes right now, or listening to you fall for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not—”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You think he’s your hero. You’re defending him from me. You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>hiding </span>
  </em>
  <span>him from Maz Lan.” Christopher shook his head, giving a bitter laugh. “Not that I blame you, Cleo. After all, something that’s more or less a god rescues you from certain death </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>forced conversion? But do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>what happened to the last person who fell for a calamity?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus Christ,” whispered Cleo. “You’re jealous. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>jealous, and Maz is scared. Neither of you can even entertain the possibility that—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That what? That an old calamity has some kind of vested interest in your safety, in your </span>
  <em>
    <span>admiration</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Christopher grabbed his wrist and leaned closer. “Yes, Cleo, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Do you even see yourself? You are the </span>
  <em>
    <span>epitome </span>
  </em>
  <span>of what darkness wants to claim. The highest fucking trophy on the shelf. So forgive me, and forgive Maz fucking Lan, if we’re just trying our damned hardest to keep you from digging your own grave.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo winced from the words, which cut him deeper than perhaps they were meant to. Echoed too closely with </span>
  <em>
    <span>he made her into a horror. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Christopher released him. Cleo looked down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Cleo said softly. A pause. “I won’t do it again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silence followed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can think of a better solution,” Christopher said eventually. “You do it one more time. But you do it with Maz Lan around. He might be able to track it through the shadow. If anyone can put an end to a cultivated calamity, it’s him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought horrified Cleo. So much that he couldn’t speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher sighed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I think about why it saved me? So that you’d hesitate like this. Listen, Cleo. You’ll hate me if I force you, so I won’t. But the longer you leave it be, the longer it has to strike and to hurt everyone close you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked up. “You seem to forget that we wouldn’t be here if not for him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher smiled coldly. “Ah. Still defending ‘him’, I see.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll defend anything that saves your life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile on Christopher’s lips wavered. Then the mage looked away. Cleo softened and reached for his lover’s shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher. Christopher…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher glanced at Cleo. His eyes wavered. And then his hardness melted away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” murmured the mage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo touched his cheek. He dusted away the words he was going to say and kissed his lover. Christopher held him close and wordlessly peppered an apology against his throat afterward. Cleo didn’t want him to leave like this and stew over their argument in his lonely apartment. So he pressed a deeper kiss and tugged at Christopher’s belt. Moments later, they tumbled into bed, all else forgotten.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, I'm not gonna be able to do much writing for the next month or so, BUT, I do have the next 6ish chapters ready to upload.</p><p>I can either just post them all at once in the next few days, which means there will be no updates for another month, or post them weekly and hopefully have a few more chapters ready by the time the 6th chapter is released. If you're reading this, let me know what you would prefer and I'll go with the majority vote!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Saturday | Dec. 25, 2021</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Dancers went underground once more. The pills and reconstructed faces led the Institute on a four-month goose hunt. Meanwhile, Cleo resumed his daily training and low-risk exorcisms, while his Egyptian calamity faded into obscurity. Shuri won a statewide art competition. Jules seemed to be enjoying college. Dani began dating a biology major in November, one that volunteered his free time at the local foster care center and bought his sister a fruit basket every Friday, so Cleo approved. Life was almost idyllic again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christmas came. Jules returned for the holidays, with a new haircut and a lighter mood than Cleo had seen in a long time. His Christmas card was lengthier as well. That was what Cleo’s family did ever since their mother passed away—instead of gifts, they wrote each other cards and read them on Christmas morning. Usually Jules’s card for Cleo was maybe five sentences, signed Jules. This year, he filled the entire card and signed a new note. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Love, Your brother. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a warm, soft day. Cleo spent the afternoon cooking with his siblings, with the television playing holiday films in the background. This year they even had a small presiding tree. Stockings hung along the fireplace, stuffed with treats. The thick aroma of rich food and peppermint candies filled the air, and by dinnertime, they’d have a spread they’d not been able to afford since their mother passed away. Money was not everything. Money did not grant happiness. But the lack of it these past few years had been a stark reminder of what they’d lost, and today, Cleo felt they were gaining some of it back. A sense of stability for the future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ironic. He was in more daily danger than he’d ever been. But he was also more in control than he’d ever been. Or perhaps </span>
  <em>
    <span>in control </span>
  </em>
  <span>was the wrong term. In tune. He understood the world a little better, so he saw his place within it a little clearer. And that gave him some peace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christmas, he wanted to be with the people he loved. He had invited Christopher, but his lover had taken up a last-minute high grade mission on the other side of the world with Amalia and some Dionysus friends. But that meant he could guiltlessly invite Maz, who otherwise would have declined because Christopher still hated him. Maz was due to arrive at half-past five. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo presumed he’d arrive via portal, but at 5:33 PM, the doorbell rang. He was cleaning up his bedroom, so one of his siblings had already opened the door by the time he made it to the stairs. Maz had come by last month for Thanksgiving dinner—with Christopher, which turned out to be a very awkward hour before Maz excused himself—so his siblings recognized their guest. Shuri was squealing about something. Cleo was very confused until he heard a dog bark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He descended the stairs and spotted his siblings crowded around a portable kennel. The kennel was wrapped in a present bow. The flap was open. A mutt puppy was lapping at Jules’s face while Shuri stroked its spotted fur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s ours?” said Shuri. “She’s really ours?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thought Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz grinned. “She is now.” He waved a manila folder and handed it to Dani. “Her adoption papers. The shelter called her Bailey, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if you renamed her.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who’s going to take her out for walks?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will!” said Shuri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Guess I could use the study breaks,” said Dani. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we keep her?” said Shuri. “Please, Cleo, please? She’ll be so heartbroken if we send her back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo sighed. Of course, Maz would adopt a shelter dog for the adopted shelter kids. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Obviously, sending her back is no option,” said Cleo. He walked over and stooped beside Jules. “Come here.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules handed over the dog. She was some kind of shepherd mix, if Cleo wasn’t mistaken. Not that he knew his breeds very well. But she was a wriggling ball of fluff in his arms, and he could feel his heart melt as soon as she snuggled his throat. Shuri beamed as Cleo scratched the dog’s ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, Bailey?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I like it,” said Dani. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo looked up at Maz. “Honestly, the last thing I expected you to get us was a dog.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four is an unlucky number,” said Maz. “And I thought you’d prefer a canine over a child.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was talking about the number of family members.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo handed Bailey to Shuri and stood up. “Well, now we’ve got six.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz blinked in surprised. Cleo smiled and took the steaming box of food out from under Maz’s arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re just waiting on the turkey. So come in and make yourself at home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz had brought a box of steamed buns—Chinese steamed buns. Cleo guessed some time ago that was the Asian half of Maz’s ethnicity, which accounted for his more delicate features. Maz didn’t talk much about himself, and Thanksgiving had been a missed opportunity. So when they set the table and talked through the holiday meal, Cleo’s first question was about how Maz usually celebrated Christmas.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t,” he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>celebrate Christmas?” said Shuri, shocked. “Why not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s either a religious holiday or a family holiday,” said Maz. “I’m no Christian.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you don’t have family?” said Shuri, sounding sad. “We can be your family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz smiled. He glanced at Cleo. “Well, your brother has already counted me in. So I suppose I must be celebrating Christmas from now on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you think, Shuri?” said Cleo. “Should he be Uncle Maz? Or Grandpa?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A speck of stuffing rose from the plate and hit Cleo’s cheek. Shuri giggled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Uncle </span>
  </em>
  <span>Maz,” said Shuri.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your sister’s got a better eye than you,” said Maz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, well, why don’t you tell us how old you are then?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not even sixty-eight. I am as spry as an osprey.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo chuckled. “That’s the perfect age for grandfatherhood.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Is that your plan?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d have to adopt within the next decade, so no.” Cleo ate the stuffing speck that Maz had thrown at his face. “You are right, though. Sixty-eight isn’t as old as you made yourself sound a couple months ago. Have you thought about giving the worklife a break, maybe finding a partner? I could introduce you to a few places.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Partnership isn’t my thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Solitude isn’t either,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You would be surprised,” said Maz. “I have friends for the occasional company, like this. But I am more of a solitary creature. Even my sister was not a constant presence in my adult life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You had a sister?” said Dani.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz nodded. “Iev. She passed away many years ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you ever...resent her for it?” said Cleo. “Not being more present in your life.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no. She was as present as I needed her to be, always. She understood the kind of person I was. And I loved her for that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell us a story about her,” said Shuri. “What was the </span>
  <em>
    <span>coolest </span>
  </em>
  <span>thing she ever did?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh.” Maz chuckled. “She did very many cool things, so people will disagree with me on what was the coolest of them all, but let’s see…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His gaze drifted. Quiet fell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The coolest thing she did?” murmured Maz at last. “She washed and peeled the market oranges for me every time we ate them. For eleven years. Because I was allergic to the pesticides they used.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lowered his gaze to the tablecloth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They kept saying Iev Lan was one of the most powerful mages to have lived. Powerful, wise, courageous, and visionary. But to Maz, she was foremost his sister. It hurt his heart to think that Maz had spent the last decades of his life chasing her wrongdoer. That the softness in his voice now had been smothered by anger, grief, vengeance, regret—the makings of a horror. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Is that what you wanted, Iev? Was your faith in the unknown worth your brother’s happiness? </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>You could make the world echo your legends. You could save cities and countries and history itself. But if you could not protect those closest to you, then you were simply powerless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Did that mean the right choice was to turn away from those who were </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>close to you? From those who breathed the same air, walk the same earth? From their truths and all the suffering in their lives that could be avoided?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sniffle came across the table. Cleo lifted his gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri was rubbing her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, no,” said Maz nervously. “Did I say something wrong?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Shuri. “Just thought you were gonna—gonna tell us about the monsters she fought. But—” She suddenly hitched a sob. “You said she died, and it’s like...it’s like if I didn’t have Dani or Cleo.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dani reached over and rubbed their sister’s back. “Not Jules?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe Jules…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules snorted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” said Maz, “I don’t think you have much to worry about, Shuri. Right, Cleo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. He caught Maz’s gaze. He hesitated before smiling and nodding.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. Do you want another slice of turkey, Shuri?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They moved onto a lighter topic. Dani mentioned a few humorous tales from the biology class she shared with her new boyfriend. She seemed to like biology. Cleo made a note to ask her about switching her career track before the holiday ended. When they were younger, Dani had loved her science courses and medical shows—had always wanted to be a doctor. But the schooling was long, and no doubt the pressure to find work as soon as possible had steered her decisions. Now that they had a stable, rising income and Cleo felt settled in his work, he wanted his sister to pursue her own dreams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they had cleared the dinner table, Jules went to set up a movie. Dani and Shuri took Bailey out for a potty. Maz pulled out a can of dried herbs and spices, and stirred his signature tea for the family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you’d share the recipe if I proved a good apprentice,” said Cleo. “Have I proven?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz smiled. “Debatable. Capabilities aside, you do have a troublesome streak sometimes.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, Maz, am I supposed to be a perfect angel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, that would be unfair to expect.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, the recipe…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz chuckled. “Every apprentice is ultimately assessed by the same final standard of certification. If you pass that, then, of course, you would be a ‘good apprentice.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean becoming a warden,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz nodded. “You’ve more or less been acting as one. It’s good time now. That would grant you the autonomy to handle lesser assignments solo, and, of course, a little extra income for the family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher said there are three exams?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can take the psychological evaluation as soon as tomorrow. It’s not something you prepare for, obviously, and I doubt you will have trouble with it. Since you’ve been on so many assignments already, you should be ready to take the written exam with two or three days of study. Once you have passed both, you can register for the physical exam.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz handed Cleo a teacup.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve more to say about that,” observed Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz sipped his tea and hummed. “It is a mouthful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take your time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To put it simply, the physical exam is now held as a tournament, both as an Order tradition of competitive merit and as a form of sport entertainment. We call it the Annual Games. This year’s will be held on New Years Day, as usual, and all apprentices aspiring for certification will be in attendance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So, is there a limit? Or does everyone who is capable make the cut?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Both,” said Maz. “You must be capable by baseline standards. But if more people meet that standard than the limit, then not all of them will receive certification. The Games are supposed to retain a competitive element, after all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doesn’t make sense to me,” said Cleo. “Plenty of horrors about. If we’ve got one more person capable of handling them, why keep them back?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because competition breeds strength. And strength is more valuable than operative efficiency, apparently. Capable apprentices </span>
  <em>
    <span>can </span>
  </em>
  <span>get special waivers for some solo assignments, but it’s an extra hassle. Anyway, Cleo—if you want to make warden this year, you will need to take the psychological and written exams in the next few days and register for the Games.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What kind of ‘games’ do they play?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Matches, of course. Typically the final round is a match against a certified warden of a rival House.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. So they have incentive to fuck you over.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz shrugged. “You don’t have much to worry about. Just don’t go overboard like you did with the boy from Apollo. Anyway,” he gestured toward the door, where Dani and Shuri were returning with Bailey, “I’ll tell you more later. I don’t want to keep your family from enjoying the movie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have something to take care of at the Institute. Do you mind if I use your portal?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo agreed. Maz bade farewell to the siblings, then picked up his coat and shoes. He also picked up the polished wooden case he had left by the door—a slim rectangular case, no longer than Cleo’s forearm. They walked up to Cleo’s room, where, once the door had closed, Maz handed the case to Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s this?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your Christmas present.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned the case in his hands. A metal latch sealed the side. He flicked it open. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A white dagger laid inside. The painted sheathe was polished, adorned with the blue linework of a dragon and Eastern clouds, but the worn corners exposed its age. When Cleo unsheathed the blade, he was nearly unsurprised to see the rune engravings. Faint hieroglyphs covering the whetted ivory—or what appeared to be ivory. Beautiful. And frightening. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A </span>
  <em>
    <span>Shinigami </span>
  </em>
  <span>blade?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Twin Scythes of Olorun,” said Maz, “but yes, that is what the Japanese call them. The blades of a Scythe cut through every fabric of the Tapestry. Any magic. Any entity. Seven lashes on a vessel are sufficient to expel any host, horrors and calamities and great calamities alike. The line of mages capable of creating these died out centuries ago, and we are still redeveloping their methods. And they’ve been systemically destroyed, so there are less than a dozen left.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But—the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twin </span>
  </em>
  <span>Scythes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Each craft of Olorun comes in a pair,” said Maz. “My sister and I split our pair.” He pointed to the blade in Cleo’s hand. “This one used to belong to Iev. Now, it belongs to you. Just be careful with it, Cleo. Wounds inflicted by the Scythes can’t be healed with Tapestral magic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t take this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he nearly said. But he swallowed those words. He tucked the blade in the case and held the case close to his chest. “Thank you, Maz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz smiled and reached into his coat, which hung tucked over his arm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s one more thing.” He pulled out a small book from the pocket. “I heard you like books.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took it. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Little Prince</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He smiled and did not say he had already read this one.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I might like this better than the fancy knife, you know.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m amassing a collection. See my bookshelf? It’ll fit right in.”      </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz followed Cleo to his little bookshelf. Cleo didn’t buy many books for himself, but he had a few from past birthdays from his siblings, friends, and coworkers. And Christopher had been gifting them frequently—usually one or two from every city they had a mission in. Now about five dozen sat among his four shelves, each one lovingly tucked into place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He found a spot on the top shelf for Maz’s gift, among his French books. </span>
</p><p><span>He had no sooner slipped his gift</span> <span>into place than Maz suddenly reached forward, pulling a much thicker book from the same shelf. Cleo turned, surprised to find Maz with a shocked expression. Like he’d just discovered an old artifact among table decor. </span></p><p>
  <span>“Where did you get this?” said Maz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo peered at the book. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>Notre-Dame de Paris.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The Hunchback of Notre Dame.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was a gift,” he said. “From a guy at a bar.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz quickly flipped through the pages. He reached the back cover, where Seth’s name and contract information was inscribed. He then shut the book and composed his expression.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“May I borrow this?” said Maz. “I’ve been looking for this edition...everywhere.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you could read French.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz smiled. “I’ll return it in a few days.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Yeah, okay. I mean, you can just keep it.” He scratched his head. “I’m trying to forget about him anyway.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forget him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The guy who gave it to me. Asked him out, more or less, and he turned me down.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Maz tucked the book under his coat. “Probably for the better. You have Christopher now, don’t you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. “Right. Yeah.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well. Merry Christmas, Cleo. I’ll talk to you soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz hurried toward the door. Cleo called after him. “You too. Take care.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door shut. Cleo smoothed the frown that had etched itself onto his brow and made his way back to his family, where the warm Christmas night extinguished his simmering unease.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, it seems like most people prefer weekly, so weekly it will be! Thanks for your comments and kudos &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Saturday | Jan. 1, 2022</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cleo passed the preliminary exams a few days after Christmas, and registered, among 98 others, for the Annual Games. Because it was supposed to be a celebratory affair, families were invited to attend. He wasn’t sure he wanted his siblings to witness the violence of magelife and had planned to keep it quiet, but then Christopher brought it up over dinner. Somehow they convinced him it would be fun. Somehow they talked him into believing his family deserved the insight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So New Year’s Day came. At 10 AM in Boston morning, Cleo left his siblings under Christopher’s supervision while he went ahead for the preparations. The House was clamorous, having decorated banners and posters and going about in drunken excitement like it was a college football finale. Cleo met downstairs with the sixteen others of Morpheus competing for certification today, including prim Jackie from the Bones squad. There was also Tracey, the young female apprentice who had given him directions to the eastern tower on day one. She smiled to see him, as usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Won’t you look at that?” she said as he approached. “Already hitting the major leagues. Couple months ago, you were still trying to find the bathrooms in the House.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo chuckled. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>still </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to find all the bathrooms in the House.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz Lan coming out to watch today?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not today,” said Cleo. Maz had texted him shortly after Christmas to call off their lessons for the next week. He had something urgent to take care of and would be out of contact until it was done. “Might be a good thing. Think I’ll do much better knowing the old man’s not mentally logging every mistake I make.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tracey clapped his shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Just have fun. And try not to make too many enemies.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Probably </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>the advice you should be giving him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced to his left. The speaker was a young woman who appeared to be in her late teens, perhaps East or Southeast Asian, with perfect eyeliner and a French braid in ash gold ombre. Despite the precision of everything on her face and head, she was dressed casually with a tank top, sweatpants, and the Institute uniform slung over a shoulder. She was exactly Cleo’s height as well, but somehow he felt shorter. Maybe it was the confident way she looked at him, despite her obvious youth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tracey spotted the woman and rolled her eyes. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>advice, obviously, is to make as many enemies as you can.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said the Asian woman. “My advice is to do what’s best for you and screw all the rest.” She turned to Cleo and stuck out her hand. “Hathai Sopha. Heard about you. Sullivan, yeah?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. He wondered where he had heard that name before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They did tell you that your cert is graded?” said Hathai. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Graded?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, that’s what I said. There’s no place for it on an ID or whatever, but when the Board’s making decisions on who to approve or who to pull or who to pass on the restricted assignments to, they’re looking at your grade. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>earn </span>
  </em>
  <span>your grade with the missions you clean. But the fastest bump you’re gonna get? Right here, right in front of them all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Does it, er, affect my pay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Base pay? Nah. But you get higher commissions from higher missions, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. Not something he had to worry too much about then. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last of the Morpheus candidates arrived a moment after. So did the head of house—someone named Ethan Manzuick, whom Cleo had not interacted with aside from a brief hallway conversation over the summer. The position of House Head was elected, and it was typically occupied by a younger senior warden: someone who had the capability and the vested interested in managing a building full of busy wardens and troublesome apprentices. Manzuick seemed good for the job. He was stern and composed, had a decent pre-departure motivation speech.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Half past the hour, they made their way to the stadium. The event was timed to take place at sunset, better for the broadcast screens to be viewed. The primary field had been set up with food tents and trucks, like a festival. People who looked like friends, family, and spectators livened the space. Cleo had seen thicker crowds, but as far as the magical world was concerned, this was the densest congregation of folk yet—including young children. He felt a little better about having his family here. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Speaking of family, though.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>been concerned about making a splash. But it’d been a long time since his siblings had watched him compete in anything. Shuri probably did not even remember the last time—senior year of high school, his tennis game. He didn’t exactly want to lose anything in front of them. Actually, he wanted to show off a little, make them proud. Give them the reassurance that he could always make it home. Not that any of this mattered for the first game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first game was more of an opening ceremony. Each House selected five representatives from among their warden candidates for a five-way match. Cleo, who had registered late, was out of the picture. Morpheus had already prepared and drilled a team, comprised of Jackie from the Bones and four others. The rest of them had the option of watching from an private House compartment through a broadcast screen, or from the apprentice wing of the inner stadium. Cleo liked being outside, so he picked the latter. Four others, Hathai and Tracey included, joined him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The competitors of the match filed onto the field with thunderous cheers from the audience. It most definitely was like a college football game. The main speaker—a woman who looked like a paler version of Liesette, to Cleo’s lament—hovered on a platform above the field. She had already welcomed the audience and dispensed with ceremonial pleasantries; now, with the first match in preliminary motion, she explained the rules. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Each competitor bore a badge of their House emblem. If it was removed by an opponent, they were eliminated from the match. At the end of twenty-two minutes, the House with the most standing apprentices won. You could be eliminated and still achieve certification—participants were scored on their overall performance between this match and the second match. But if you caused any lethal damage, you would have to wait until next year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds fun, doesn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo glanced over at Hathai, who’d come to lean over the rail beside him. She sounded a little peeved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Didn’t get picked for the spot?” guessed Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tracey, who had overheard, snorted and joined them. “She </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and then got kicked off the team for being too difficult to work with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mistaken,” said Hathai. “They kicked me off the team because they couldn’t take a little criticism. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m </span>
  </em>
  <span>in it to win it, take your pick for the ‘it.’ If your game isn’t good enough, then why shouldn’t I call you out?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Teamwork </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a part of the game,” said Tracey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only when you need a team. Put me out there and I’ll top all the mummy’s boys and their whiny friends.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tracey made a distasteful noise and walked away. Cleo was more interested in the field, where the speaker had now directed everyone’s attention to the master of the match. It was an older woman with a single streak of white among her otherwise dark and short hair, a woman who wore a simple gray suit and a pearl necklace to match the white streak. She sat among a panel of those who appeared to be judges. The crowd cheered in delight while the woman only faintly smiled, with this composed, quietly imposing air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The game master lifted her hand. The crowd quieted.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo bristled from a sudden intense ripple in the Tapestral weave. Then, like a breeze sweeping through the stadium, the field morphed—</span>
  <em>
    <span>expanded. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Gone was the dusking sun. In place of the evening sky was a deep electric navy, an atmosphere of infinite depth—as if they had been entrapped within cyberspace. This same space pushed the stands further back and created space between the segments. What was once the size of a college football field was now twice that. Out on the match grounds, trimmed grass became cool slate, and holographic walls rose to craft a maze. Projected screens hung above the field, showcasing close-ups of the candidates below. The crowd gasped in awe, only silenced as a woman’s voice echoed through the space. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Let the game begin!</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The candidates dove into action. Cleo blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hathai chuckled. “First time seeing the Neuromancer at work?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Neuromancer?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s Claudine Pataluch,” said Hathai. She pointed at the game master. “Just like the calamities have got their gods and the warlocks have got their darklords, we wardens have our own heroes. The four Centennial Legends. Well, four-ish now. The numbers change around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t believe I’ve heard about all of them,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pataluch is one of them,” said Hathai. “We give them names associated with their greatest signature spellwork, usually a kind of field or form transfiguration. You know about transfiguration, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That it’s the fifth and highest tier, yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hathai tsked. “Bah. Not that simple. You got a very small handful of mages who can achieve total field or form transfiguration </span>
  <em>
    <span>literally</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yeah. But some kinds of transfiguration are tougher than others. Like, making yourself into an eagle is much, </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>easier than making yourself into a phoenix. Fantastic transfiguration is the stuff of legend, and it takes so long for even legends to master that they can only really create one signature form or field. So that signature is how we name them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” Cleo looked around the space again, ignoring much of the battle below. “Neuromancer. It’s fitting. William Gibson’s cyberspace novel, no?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t know who that is,” said Hathai.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled. “Who are the others?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, the latest addition to the lot is Solomon Reyes from House Apollo. He was named four years ago. The Emperor. And you’re getting trained by another one of them. Maz Lan, the Seneschal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Seneschal?” Cleo snorted. “Sounds old and harmless.”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, he must not have shown you the manor they named him for. I’ve only heard about it from my parents, but apparently it’s a freak labyrinth. There’s no way out unless you wear him down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Perfect</span>
  </em>
  <span>, yes, for combating intelligent high grade opponents.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yes. A labyrinth does sound like it would be more up his alley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Inspired by—guess who—the Minotaur. Kamari Reiml, </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>mentor. Well, him and his sister’s mentor. But Reiml died back in 2009, which cuts us down to two legends from the last century, because the fourth died back in 1990.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Iev Lan?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. The Nightmare.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nightmare</span>
  </em>
  <span>? That sounds terrible.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hathai hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe they wanted to scare the bad guys? My grandmum thinks it’s a pretty awful name too. They were good friends, actually. Iev’s mastery was form transfiguration, but apparently she didn’t use the full form very often. People just </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard </span>
  </em>
  <span>about it and the stuff she could do with it—like stir up a calamity’s worst nightmare. My grandmum’s one of the few wardens who got to see it in person. And she says it was just breathtakingly beautiful. Like the night, yeah, but like a galactic night.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That sounds...difficult to envision.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right?” Hathai laughed. “Imagine, being the </span>
  <em>
    <span>night</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Heard the Lans grew up in a pretty rural village, so she probably had a good view of the night to draw her inspiration from. Nana said she could just vanish from this world—vanish! Become entirely incorporeal, and then come back. Like teleportation, but leagues more advanced. Not that teleportation isn’t already damn near impossible, but I heard you just jumped right into it a month in.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo cleared his throat. “I didn’t really know what I was doing. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>almost kill myself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eh. Magic doesn’t manifest if your concept’s not clear enough. Fact that you managed to move your body at all, organs intact or not, was just raw genius. Let me tell you, Sullivan—haters will hate. You do your best and you’re a tactless snob. You slip up and you’re a cheat. You walk the middle line and you’re a fake. So just do your best, you know? You owe it to yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo wondered over her words. She wasn’t wrong. No, actually, she was...on a very right track. Every privilege they had was nothing but a gift of circumstance, be it talent, status, looks, health, family, wit. To squander it in any way was an insult to the giver. But the universe was a balancing act. If you were a person who only took, never gave back, then you could never find peace with this world. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think,” he said, “we owe it to more than just ourselves. But yes. We should do our best.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned back to the game. He’d missed much of it. A scoreboard hung over the field now, and it seemed that House Apollo was in the lead—all five participants still in-match. He watched for a few seconds longer before recalling something Hathai had said earlier.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said there are four legends now? Maz, Reyes, Pataluch, and…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hah. You’re asking?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Four-</span>
  <em>
    <span>ish</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Some people say there’s still a chasm between him and the other two. But I’m laughing because, well, all of your missions are with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Christopher.” Honestly, Cleo wasn’t that surprised about the comparison after seeing Christopher in action. To date, he still hadn’t seen the man go all-out, or even come close to exerting himself. Except for that time in Ukraine, when he ripped up a few warlocks without his own magic—and almost died. But to be fair, if Maz had been fed a channel-blocking pill, the old man would have been far more fucked. “Think most would agree with the naysayers though, right? He’s capped at first-tier transfiguration. Plus exceptions.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those exceptions are where it’s at. Some guy wrote a legit research paper on it a while back—whether Carrasquillo’s body enhancement magic qualifies as fantastic form transfiguration. You’ve got to have seen it? He moves faster than is physically possible. And he regenerates like a literal monster.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen him blur. Occasionally. Never seen him regenerate though.” Cleo paused. “Which, now that I think about it, is pretty scary. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ve </span>
  </em>
  <span>rarely been scratched around him…” He paused again. “What would they call him, then? Wolverine? The Flash?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hathai cackled. “The Red Dancer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. I bet he hates that one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone who hates </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>came up with it. And when I say hate, I mean, ‘used to bully but now grudgingly admires.’” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure know a lot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course. I’m the youngest of four in a legacy family. All we do is gossip.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? I’m the oldest of four. In a not-legacy family.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah? You gave me older-sister vibes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m—I’m a brother.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, my brothers are assholes and my sister is a sweetheart. Take it as a compliment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo gave her an odd look before turning back to the game. Apollo was still in the lead, untouched while Morpheus was down to two candidates. One of them was Jackie, who was no longer looking so prim on the overhead screen. Actually, portions of his jacket had been burnt, showcasing patches of red skin. Lethal aggression was prohibited, but hurting someone? Completely within limits. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon, Jackie was separated from his remaining Morpheus partner. It took Cleo a few seconds to register than House Deimos, with four remaining competitors, had teamed up with House Apollo, while Dionysus and Kratos duked it out on the other side of the field. Deimos and Apollo were hounding on Morpheus. At the seventeen minute mark, Jackie was the last Morpheus candidate in the match. One against nine—he stood no chance. Thirty seconds later, an Apollo boy—young, probably legacy—had him cornered. Grabbed Jackie by the collar and—as quick as a blink—broke his leg and knocked him unconscious before Jackie could scream. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck?” hissed Cleo, horrified. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd roared. Most might not even have noticed the crippling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Told them to keep me in,” muttered Hathai. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They broke his fucking leg. Did you see that? He—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Doctors will fix him up,” said Hathai. “They knocked him out for the next round, though. Might hurt him for the final rankings. Yeah, it’s low to gang on a House like that. Guess they </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>want to put us in our place before we make our way back to the top again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Hathai spoke, a pair of the Apollo contestants had looked their way. Their eyes landed on Cleo and Hathai. One of them smirked. Hathai flicked her middle finger. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snickered as Deimos dove on them, breaking the alliance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever,” she said. “It’s a compliment. They’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared </span>
  </em>
  <span>of our House now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just a game,” muttered Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A game? Hah.” Hathai shook her head. “The Annual’s a huge point-scorer if you play it right. More wardens for your House means more missions, means more rank. Morpheus doesn’t talk about it because we’ve been the bottom feeder for so long, but the others? Apollo, Deimos, Kratos? Oh, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>care</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s not just a game to them. It’s conquest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the field, a pair of medics pulled the injured candidates into safety. The final minutes of the battle raged on. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Politics? I think Christopher mentioned something about Board seats being distributed based on House rank.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, them. They make all the big decisions. Do we tell the world leaders about the Tapestry? How much do we tell them? What do we do with the funding we get? Do we deal with the S Grade calamity wrecking that random Pacific island, or do we do CBA and let the mess die out on its own? Or if we do deal with it, who do we send? And if the people we send mess up, how do we punish them? You know, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>big </span>
  </em>
  <span>stuff.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the Houses, they have distinctive politics?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” said Hathai. “When you’ve been a warden for at least a year, you can actually transfer between Houses. Apollo and Deimos draw a lot of your usual ‘heroes.’” She made air-quotes with her fingers. “And I’m doing this” —she made the air-quotes again— “because I’m talking about the ones who think they’re some predestined saviors. Better than the rest of us. So they go out there and fight the bad guys not because someone desperately needs their help, but because it feels good to stand out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s that translate into Board decisions?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re looking at it.” Hathai nodded to the field. “Games weren’t always the certification test for new wardens. But the current Board buys into the idea that competition cultivates strength, and strong is what the Institute needs to be. Kratos is a strength-oriented House as well, but they are more focused on discipline. If </span>
  <em>
    <span>they </span>
  </em>
  <span>led the Board, we’d get mandatory missions assigned to us every week. Then there’s Dionysus, which is more of a pacifist House, so they turn out a lot of researchers, doctors, and investigators. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Then </span>
  </em>
  <span>there’s us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“House of Dreams,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. Guess you could say we’re idealists. Back when </span>
  <em>
    <span>we </span>
  </em>
  <span>dominated the Board, wardens used to be certified based on a holistic assessment. You used to need a certain degree of good moral judgment.” She pointed to the Apollo pair who’d smirked at them earlier, now viciously assaulting a Deimos apprentice. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>They </span>
  </em>
  <span>wouldn’t have made the cut. Or, if they were good enough, they might have been given a limited license.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you choose Morpheus?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, but nobody here likes me. They say I act like a Sunboy. So screw them all. Maybe I’ll switch to the Drunkards next year. Hey, you should join me. You’re basically scoring points for them anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled and said nothing. On the field, the game reached its final seconds. The announcer kept pitch with the climax. The last intense bout between Apollo and Deimos had halved both teams’ numbers, with Kratos and Dionysus doing a little worse. As applause and protest roared, cyberspace became natural space again. Their House Head came to call them down, in preparation for the next event. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like the first game, the second was among apprentices only—all 99 candidates registered, minus those who needed recuperation from the opening round. Four matches would take place simultaneously in the four quarters of the field, set to the same 22 minutes; the remaining candidates in each quarter would then engage in a 15 minute match across the full field. The same badge system was used. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo ended up with Tracey and another Morpheus candidate. A small trio in a group of two dozen enemies—it echoed the church in Ukraine. Back then, Cleo had only trained on basic masteries, self-defense, and one-on-one combat. This time, he knew his strategy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bided his time. He held back for the first few minutes so that his opponents and his teammates could rack up certification points. Then nearing the last five minutes, he struck back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were many ways to restrict a group. You could conjure simple bindings for each individual. You could solidify the air itself—or at least thicken it. You could slick the ground. Or sink the ground—quicksand. But any concept required practice to be reliable, and any concept was more effective when honed. Not even the greatest mages, said Maz, could be a master of everything. And because magical combat was like a game of speed chess, where every piece could do almost anything on an infinite grid, the choice of breadth versus depth was a critically strategic one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had chosen depth. He did not modify the field—it was a tempting first instinct, as when he had crafted walls in the church, metal prisons in the asylum and against Vincenzio Marchesi. But as Maz had pointed out, lateral conceptualization was not Cleo’s greatest strength. Cleo had a more natural affinity for vertical conceptualization. Like the fire he first crafted on instinct, and defaulted to in times of panic. Like his attempt at teleportation. Complex manipulation of discrete objects and spaces. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire, however, was destructive. So Cleo had learned to master aerial manipulation—bending the air to his will like shields, blades, and additional limbs. He layered to this by enhancing his own mobility, reducing his body weight while improving his muscle force—a trick taught by Christopher to make up for his physical shortcomings. He dashed aside aggressive magic with stronger concepts. He breezed through his opponents, plucking off their badges one by one. With Tracey and the other Morpheus candidate as back up, they cleaned out eighty percent of their field quarter before the bell sounded. The next round, full field, he spotted Hathai, who pulled him behind a half-wall cover early match. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sweet moves,” she said, grinning. “You pick them up from Carrasquillo?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it that obvious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet he’s just gushing up on the stands. Anyway, you want to team up and clean out the Sunboys? Heard the bastards talking shit about us on field two earlier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you preferred to work alone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes. “I like to work </span>
  <em>
    <span>with competence</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Are you with me or not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo smiled from the adrenaline high. “Let’s do this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They tracked down the Apollo candidates together. Cleo quickly discovered why Hathai might drive her peers a little crazy. Her combat style was entirely hands-off—she summoned humanoid shadow creatures to do the dirty work. While all around them, spell words were being shouted across the field, Hathai simply stood by with a smirk, occasionally wriggling her fingers like a devilish conductor, making it all look just a little </span>
  <em>
    <span>too </span>
  </em>
  <span>easy. Anyone who would otherwise admire her was probably put off by the overt confidence. Cleo, on the other hand, was happy to be her partner in arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They wiped out the Apollo apprentices before the bell, all except for one young woman who’d vanished among the chaos. The crowd was thunderous at the unexpected table turn from House Morpheus. Cleo would have liked to see his family among them, but he could not catch a glimpse of their faces before Hathai tugged him off the field.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fifteen minute break was held while scores where tallied. Morpheus gathered in the private compartment over some snacks, the air tense with nerves. A girl was crying already. Hathai looked like she could not care less, laughing at the interim replays. Of course, when the results were posted, she was ranked second—one above Cleo. He was not inherently competitive, but he was a little more miffed about being third than he had expected to be. Having the Institute’s two most capable mages as his instructors...well, anyone should be shocked he wasn’t coming in first. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Hathai just grinned and nudged his shoulder. “You’ve got to be more </span>
  <em>
    <span>ostentatious</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Go on, give me a challenge for first place. Or at least don’t let the Sunboys take it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess, er, I could try.”    </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only nine other Morpheus members had made the semi-final cut, Tracey included. Jackie was the ninth, despite having to sit out the second game. He looked ready to shred some rivals. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next set of games would be timed traditional duels against certified wardens—volunteers from a rival House, who had incentive to fail you out. The 72 remaining candidates would be split into six groups of twelve, with six duels taking place simultaneously on a segregated field. Each group of twelve was paired with a trio of wardens. The wardens switched out with one another at will, but the group of twelve was randomly ordered. One warden versus one candidate at a time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then this was where it got interesting. The opponent wardens were not your run-of-the-mill mages. They were all seniors, those capable of handling B Grades solo. A candidate had four minutes and thirty seconds to land a strike on their warden opponent. If they failed, they were disqualified. If they succeeded, their next goal was to stay in the match until the twelve minute mark. They would then be scored on their performance during these twelve minutes—or however long they lasted. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo drew fourth in his group. Four—hadn’t Maz said it was an unlucky number? Ah, well. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was not allowed to leave the waiting room until his number was called. It was a soundproof room, cutting off the announcer’s voice. So he didn’t have the advantage of seeing his possible opponents, or knowing their combat styles. He wasn’t with Hathai or Tracey either, so it was mostly rivals keeping him company. Someone from Dionysus struck up a conversation with him about Christopher and their recent missions together, but that talk faded off quickly as the first Apollo candidate passed the five minute mark. The room looked just a little more tense. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After twelve minutes, the second candidate was called. She also passed five minutes, but did not quite reach twelve. The third candidate went, from House Dionysus. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before five minutes was up, the door opened. The facilitator called for number four. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, shit,” muttered the Dionysus fellow beside Cleo. Seemed like his buddy didn’t make the cut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’ll have next year,” said Cleo. He knew it was a weak attempt at consolation, but his mind was more focused on his own match now. He stood and followed the facilitator out the door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Night had fallen on the island. Now the great field exploded with action, color, magic. Veils of transparent white mist separated the arena into six parts—not obstructive enough to blind anyone’s view, but the veil became vivid red when it was touched, alerting trespassers. Not that anyone should be trespassing much—each dueling space was about the size of a school gym. Overhead, the announcer gushed on her platform, sharing the most riveting details from the field. At the moment, she was racking up the tension over an incapacitation countdown. Someone’s match was about to end. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Cleo reached his court. His opponent was faced the other way, rolling his limbs. Golden hair, formidable build. Looked...familiar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now here,” said the announcer, “in the second court, we have our next candidate—the highly anticipated Cleo Sullivan of House Morpheus! And what a stroke of fate! With the way these cards have fallen, it looks like Mr. Sullivan will be facing an old rival—yes, ladies and gentlemen, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>rematch </span>
  </em>
  <span>you have all been waiting for! Our Apollo favorite—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His opponent turned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Vincenzio fucking Marchesi.  </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>warning: nsfw + some violent non consensual content</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Saturday | Jan. 1, 2022</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>kidding </span>
  </em>
  <span>me,” muttered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of all the people he could be facing—Vincenzio </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking </span>
  </em>
  <span>Marchesi. The bastard who goaded him into a suicidal teleportation attempt last May. Forget that Cleo had made the foolish maneuver of his own free will—he still vividly remembered getting the shit beat out of him for the sake of the prick’s bloated ego. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>should </span>
  </em>
  <span>feel like a lifetime ago, but the familiarity of the arena field made it seem like yesterday. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This was just perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Somewhere at the edge of the court, in an altogether irrelevant part of Cleo’s world now, the linesman declared their match to have begun. He had four minutes and thirty seconds to land a hit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just want you to know,” called Marchesi, “that I signed up for this for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re proper now, right? I won’t be holding back like last time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were holding back? I couldn’t tell.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi grinned and snapped his fingers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The field vanished. The sound vanished. Suddenly, he was standing alone with Marchesi in a white grid room. There was no decor, no detail. But it </span>
  <em>
    <span>was </span>
  </em>
  <span>technical field transfiguration—the simplest, most basic field transfiguration, but fifth tier nonetheless. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Heard you’ve improved,” said Marchesi. “But have you caught up?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t this against the rules?” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rules are duel rules,” said Marchesi. “The audience might not like it, but the game’s the same.” He extended an arm and conjured a blade. “Think of it as a courtesy. There are children in the crowd. Wouldn’t want them to see, you know. The gory stuff.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook his head. This man—he was obsessed with himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too bad,” said Cleo. “I was told to be ostentatious.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi opened his mouth to respond. Not that Cleo minded conversation, but he had a certification to earn. He dove forward, slamming down three consecutive windstrikes, each blow so condensed the aerial distortion was visible to the naked eye. Marchesi dodged every strike, eyes glinting as he threw his blade at Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi shouted a spell—the blade split into two scythes. Cleo pressurized the air around the weapons and pulled as if on a wrapped blanket, dragging both out of their paths. Marchesi was rushing at Cleo now, his speed propelled by enhanced legs. He shouted another spell and the Tapestry stirred behind Cleo, attempting to trap him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi formed a fist. A familiar vicious grin took his lips. He lunged to strike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his weakness was too apparent. He hadn’t used spellwords in their last match, which meant he was struggling to divide his spread his concentration between maintaining his field and his combat. All Cleo needed to do was...stir things up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He used an old trick. He conjured a metal prison within the grid space, wrapping both him and Marchesi inside. As soon as the prison sealed, light vanished. It was pitch dark. Footsteps stumbled in surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo didn’t give his opponent time to recover. He hurtled a triple blast of air, each blunt. Marchesi might have dodged one or two, but at least one landed, shoving him hard against the far prison wall. He grunted loudly. Cleo dismissed the prison, and sure enough, his opponent’s concentration had been scattered. The arena crowd was back, roaring as the announcer clamored in excitement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi scrambled upright. He glared at Cleo. The grid field did not return—perhaps he’d realized he needed his full concentration on more practical magic. Good. Because Cleo was remembering that his siblings were watching, and he was still in third place. He still needed to be a </span>
  <em>
    <span>good </span>
  </em>
  <span>apprentice for that tea recipe, after all. And a good apprentice did not reflect poorly on his mentors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His opponent lunged again. The Tapestry exploded with force. You could detect the ripples before the concept formed—the time lapse often relied on the skill of the caster. Marchesi was fast: vines shot out at lightning speed from the ground around Cleo, moving to bind him like their last match. Cleo swept a hand and honed the air. Like a dozen nanoblades, his magic tore through the attacking vines—and damaged, they faded back into mist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A lunge away, Marchesi roared. In the breadth of that maneuver, he had closed the distance and resummoned his blade. Now he swung down the strike, another familiar scene. Cleo lifted his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blade came down on his palm—but did not cut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi blinked in shock. It was not Cleo’s hand parrying the strike. A thin sheet of compressed air prevented the weapon from reaching his skin—a concept he had practiced a thousand times with a blademaster. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The </span>
  </em>
  <span>blademaster. And still, Marchesi continued to press on like he could force his way through the sheet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher could do it even with a kitchen knife. If he </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>tried. But Marchesi was no Christopher. He could not begin to compare. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really?” said Cleo. “Blades? This is poor judgment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Tapestry stirred. Cleo sensed heat—fire. More than that, the atmosphere of this weave was familiar. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Holy </span>
  </em>
  <span>fire. He glanced at Marchesi, catching a dark glare, a twisted smile. Cleo blinked, having the sudden thought that it was—it was the expression of a horror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Desire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The desire for recognition and dominance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Cleo was fueling the flames. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The space around him exploded into dangerous, consuming white. Cleo shut his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The air changed. The heat vanished. The voices above clamored. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His feet landed softly on the ground, three steps behind Marchesi. He straightened as Marchesi stumbled around, looking as shocked as he had been the first time. Six months was long enough for Maz to approve his second attempt. Seven—that was long enough for Cleo to do it without the injuries.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Actually,” said Cleo, “this was all poor judgment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He teleported once more, right behind his opponent. Marchesi parried his first strike and dodged the next. But he couldn’t keep up for long. After another jaunt, this time vanishing in the middle of a strike to reappear behind Marchesi, Cleo kicked out his opponent’s balance. He summoned enhanced metal bindings to close off this rematch, a dozen folds instantly clasping Marchesi to the ground. Marchesi glared up, stirring the Tapestry above Cleo’s head. Cleo smothered the forming eagle into mist with a fist of wind. His gaze did not leave Marchesi’s face, now warped with anger, disbelief, and shame. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right. It was not fair. Cleo understood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Marchesi lashed back with another horde of vines. Cleo simply retreated out of his line of sight. The countdown began. Marchesi could not break free of the chains; neither could he break Cleo’s concentration. When the countdown hit zero, the crowd cheered, thundering </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sullivan! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He released his opponent, who laid unmoving on the ground for seconds longer, before finally, like bone through mud, dragging himself upright. He pinned Cleo with a dangerous, hateful glare. Cleo tensed for another strike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Marchesi gathered himself and left the field. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cheering went on. Cleo was disoriented from the distaste of it all. He made for the stadium shadows as well, ignoring a few apprentices or wardens trying to speak with him. Winning didn’t feel as good as he thought it would when the match began. Winning didn’t feel good at all. No—he felt like he’d crushed someone’s spirit. Led them a little further down the path of darkness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stopped and looked over his shoulder. Marchesi had already vanished through another arena exit. Maybe Cleo should say something to him. Yes, he should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hurried the way Marchesi had gone, through the exit tunnel, out into the open field. But among the stalls and trucks, that golden head was nowhere to be seen. Some ten minutes later, Cleo sighed and gave up, and returned to fetch his belongings from the locker room. No reason to stay now that he’d done his part. Two other Morpheus candidates were idling in that locker room, one comforting the other. Thankfully, they were too absorbed in each other to pay him any mind. He managed to change in a sheltered corner and slip out unnoticed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out in the exit tunnel again, he flicked on his phone. He had two missed calls from Christopher, so he dialed back. The man picked up after his first ring—sounded to be in a quieter place than the clamoring arena.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cleo! I saw you head out. Where are you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Er, heading out. Where are you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>By the big red ice-cream truck, northside of the stadium.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, yeah. I know where that is.” He paused. “Is that Shuri in the background?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, yeah. She’s got a mouthful of ice-cream and she’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>still </span>
  <em>
    <span>going on about how cool you were. Get yourself over here, superstar. You owe us some hugs and kisses.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo grinned and kissed the air. “Be right there, babe.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hung up and quickened his pace, thoughts of Marchesi pushed aside. It was an unfortunate pairing, yes, but this was supposed to be a good day. This </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>be a good day. Well, night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three minutes later, he spotted his siblings and Christopher near the ice-cream truck. Shuri ran to him first, giving him a one-armed embrace with an ice-cream cone in the other hand. Christopher was right after, catching Cleo’s chin in his hand just as Cleo was about to thank him for minding his family. Cleo hadn’t gotten the first syllable out before Christopher kissed him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surprised heat flushed to Cleo’s cheeks. He could feel eyes on them, from the trucks and stalls, from the spectators or even participants who’d trickled out from the stadium. They hadn’t been public about their relationship, except, well, on missions in the middle of cities where no one knew who they were. </span>
  <em>
    <span>This </span>
  </em>
  <span>news was going to spread like wildfire. But...he didn’t really mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pulled away and smiled down, his eyes skimming Cleo’s face. “Beautifully done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo grinned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri tugged his shirt. “You didn’t tell us you were so </span>
  <em>
    <span>cool</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why didn’t you tell us?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down and nudged her forehead with a finger. “Why do I have to tell you? Don’t you already know I’m the coolest?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Such </span>
  </em>
  <span>the coolest,” said Dani. Christopher made way for her as she pulled Cleo into an embrace. She said beside his ear, softly, “Freakin’ hundred carat diamond. They finally put you on the top shelf again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She means it’s good to see you in your element,” said Jules. “Literally. What the fuck was that, airbending?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More or less,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can </span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>do that one day?” said Shuri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo ruffled her hair. “Thought you wanted to be an astronaut. How about I do your share of the airbending and you do my share of the spacebending?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You totally did that too,” said Shuri.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, kiddo, are too sharp to waste yourself on cheap magic tricks like me. Did Christopher buy you that ice-cream, by the way?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri beamed. Cleo chuckled. Of course. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bought her the small cone,” said Christopher, slipping an arm around Cleo’s shoulders. “Have to save room for dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh? And what’s dinner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher winked. “My treat. Let’s go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To Cleo’s surprise, Christopher led them into the Andronicus main building—through the library, toward his private office. Cleo had been by the office a few times since April, mostly to debrief missions, occasionally to travel. Christopher kept two portals in his office: one to his father’s inherited farmhouse in Cordoba, and another to his parents’ little suburban home in Barcelona. He’d told Cleo the story before—he hadn’t wanted to sell the homes, but the House halls were typically reserved for current apprentices and wardens. So he had the portals rerouted to his office. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Cleo realized where they were headed, he grinned in delight. He’d always wanted to bring his family traveling. He just hadn’t the chance. This was perfect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher took them through the Barcelona portal. It led to the small courtyard of a classic, two-story adobe home, with a terracotta patio beneath a Roman arcade. Snow blanketed the ground, and as in the Mediterranean, night blanketed the sky. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this your house?” said Shuri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was my parent’s house,” said Christopher. He led them inside, where earthen tones and abstract portraits decorated the rooms. “I don’t come by very often. But it’s nice for the occasional vacation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where are we?” said Dani.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Take a guess,” said Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, it’s night time, it’s cold, so I’d have to guess…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Spain,” said Jules. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned. “Bingo. Decor gave it away?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules scoffed. “Carrasquillo. It’s pretty obvious. What’s the province, Barcelona?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher appeared surprised. “How did you know that one?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules nodded to a painting on the wall. “That’s Casa Mila, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t even know what that is,” said Cleo. “Is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher nodded. “It’s Antoni Gaudi’s iconic architectural masterpiece. We can see it in person later, if you’re interested. But Jules, my man—I’m impressed you recognized it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jules gave Christopher an odd look.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo suppressed a smile and cleared his throat. “Mind if I wash up before we go eat? I’m gross at the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bathroom’s to the left,” said Christopher. “There’s another one around the back. You make yourselves comfortable and I’ll call us a taxi.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that was what they did. Some forty minutes later, they were in the thick of the city, sitting window view in an aromatic traditional restaurant on a busy market street. Christopher ordered far more food than they could reasonably eat, as he always did when he took Cleo out to dinner, but his siblings made an impressive effort. Cleo was surprised they had the energy to walk after the meal, but walk they did—through the Christmas markets, the New Years street shows, the parade of ice sculptures. When it began to get just a little too cold, Christopher pulled them into a clothes shop and bought everyone new scarves. His belated holiday gifts, he said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were out until well past midnight. And because Shuri said she wanted to see the inside of the extraordinary La Sagrada Familia basilica church, which had closed to visitors at half past seven, Cleo agreed to stay the night. Christopher grabbed them a taxi, conversing with the driver in Spanish. Some five minutes later, they were dropped off in front of a stunning palatial hotel. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>where we’re staying?” said Shuri excitedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll have to check if they have rooms,” said Christopher, leading the way to the entrance.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got a house twenty minutes away,” said Jules. “Why waste the money?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah.” Christopher slowed his pace, smirked, and swung his arm over Cleo’s shoulder. “Because the house isn’t soundproof.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher!” hissed Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed. “What? I might snore.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So does Jules,” said Shuri. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Very </span>
  </em>
  <span>loudly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my god,” whispered Cleo, feeling his ears burn. In his peripheral, Dani looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh. Jules looked—well, away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They booked their rooms. They got their keys. After his siblings had gone off the explore the amenities of the hotel, Cleo caught Christopher in a quiet corridor and glared at him. “Please, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>, would you not make jokes about having sex with me around my siblings?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Pretty </span>
  </em>
  <span>please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher, that was so embarrassing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “I was just teasing your brother. It’s like learning fifth tier manip, you know, trying to get him to warm up to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, well, telling him you’re fucking me tonight isn’t going to do it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am fucking you tonight. Definitely.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A middle-aged couple walked into their corridor, just within hearing distance. Cleo felt his cheeks burn—but no more so than his lower gut. He glared at the grinning Christopher as the couple walked past them, conversing in Spanish. Maybe they hadn’t understood?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grabbed his hand and tugged him down the corridor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” said Cleo. “Our room’s in the other direction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, but the bar is in </span>
  <em>
    <span>this </span>
  </em>
  <span>direction.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So it was—an atmospheric lounge with a cityscape view, on the top floor of the hotel. At this hour, few customers still lingered. Christopher sat them in a windowside booth after purchasing a rich bottle of Cava. He poured for Cleo, looking properly content. Christopher usually appeared content—he was always smiling. But Cleo had learned over the months the nuances between a service smile and an effortless smile. The second one lighted his eyes differently, like holiday firewood.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know we haven’t received the </span>
  <em>
    <span>official </span>
  </em>
  <span>certification yet,” said Christopher, “but this one’s for it anyway. Cheers to you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Christopher. For everything.” Cleo paused. “For...literally, everything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, for you? Anything. Literally, anything.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s heart throbbed. He smiled and reached for his collar—and paused, oddly disappointed to find just his clothes and skin. Christopher didn’t seem to notice the moment and clinked their glasses. They drank. Cleo brushed the strange blip aside. They drank some more, and talked some more, about the city, about Christopher’s childhood memories in it, about the Games. Somehow through the liquor, Cleo managed to pull a few technical tips from his company on the matches. But he wasn’t sure he’d remember them all that well come morning. The alcohol was heavy, sweet, and quickly infecting his blood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Near the end of the first bottle, Cleo was mostly thinking about the promise in the corridor. He had to admit—the chemical wedding of adrenaline and lust was difficult to escape. And after the matches in the field, he would like nothing more than to just dissolve under his lover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher’s eyes were easy to read. He was of a similar mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They finished their glasses. Christopher bought a second bottle for the room, and then they returned to the room. The door had barely shut before Christopher had his lips on Cleo, sharing the remnant tint of alcohol. Cleo wrapped his arms around his lover, body thrumming with warmth and desire. He walked blindly back, pulling Christopher with him until his legs hit the bed. It was such a soft, silken, luxurious bed. A perfect place to sin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pushed him down, trailed his kisses to Cleo’s throat. His coat and scarf—and Cleo’s—had long been tossed onto the floor. He’d dropped the bottle of Cava onto the sheets to strip off his jacket as well, then resumed kissing Cleo’s lips. He paused for a moment to gaze down with a smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get a little flushed when you’re drunk, you know that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hummed as he began to undo Christopher’s shirt. “Like it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “Fucking gorgeous.” He kissed Cleo again, then leaned to murmur by his ear. “You know, baby, you put on one hell of a show tonight. I was thinking…” He caught Cleo’s traveling fingers and pulled back to meet Cleo’s gaze. “I was thinking you could grace me with another.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked in hazed flutters. He felt himself flush deeper. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want me to…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grinned and pulled back to grab the tossed Cava bottle. He popped it open with a flick of magic and downed a swallow. With his shirt undone and his perfect skin flushed, it was a horribly arousing sight. Cleo stared until Christopher slipped off the bed—summoned over the armchair with a flick of his finger, and plopped himself down with the bottle. He crossed one leg over the other and gazed at Cleo with a domineering smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Think you still owe me a holiday gift,” said Christopher. “How about it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s gut throbbed. Nerves crawled up his skin. He didn’t know what it was about the prospect of masturbating in front of his lover that made him so meek. And aroused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he muttered. He shifted to the edge of the bed and grabbed the Cava from Christopher. He took a long, deep, intoxicating draft before handing it back. Meanwhile, Christopher flicked on the television radio and settled on a sultry music channel. That </span>
  <em>
    <span>did </span>
  </em>
  <span>make it easier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is a holiday gift,” said Cleo. “Don’t expect it too often.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you put it like that, you make me want to pull out my phone and film this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t dare.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed. “Oh, go on. Please. I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>dripping </span>
  </em>
  <span>from anticipation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo suppressed a shiver and moved back on the bed. Very well—if it was to be a gift, he’d make it a worthwhile one. No one ever said Cleo Sullivan presented half-assed presents. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stripped slowly down to his underwear, keeping his lover’s gaze. Despite the countless times they’d had sex, the alcohol was probably critical in keeping Cleo from dying of embarrassment. And maybe precisely because of that, he was excruciatingly wet. But he did not touch himself—not yet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“To your liking?” he said, cocking his brow, skimming his fingertips along his chest, his belly, his thighs. He was careful not to dig into flesh the way those dark eyes desired, the way that soft reply of </span>
  <em>
    <span>gorgeous </span>
  </em>
  <span>urged him. He rubbed himself through his clothes, lightly, slowly building, his gaze flickering from the pleasure, but not leaving those heated eyes. He was going to make his lover </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look like you’ve done this before,” murmured Christopher.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, thanks, darling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Have </span>
  </em>
  <span>you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>think?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher smiled and took a slow sip of his drink. “Just being the usual prodigy, then. Go on, baby. Tell me how it feels.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything’s hot. Acute. Must be the drink.” Cleo glanced at the thick bulge at his lover’s crotch. “Feels like you’re torturing me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher chuckled. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo enjoyed the faint thrill of pleasing his lover. He reached beneath the band of his shorts and closed his eyes, groaning softly as he slipped inside himself. After some slow thrusts, he removed his hand, recaptured his lover’s gaze, and licked his fingers clean. Christopher made a soft noise, drank again, began reaching for his own belt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Soon Cleo was naked. He could practically hear his own heartbeat as he spread his legs wide apart, urged on by those sultry comments. His breaths came harder. But he couldn’t come like this. He didn’t want to come like this. He wanted…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he whispered, his fingers soaked, the sheets beneath soaked, “Christopher, please…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please come here. Please, I need you. Oh, please...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you need me to do?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fill me up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Come with me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An empty bottle thumped against the carpet. Cleo hadn’t even noticed he’d finished the bottle—but his faint concern was dashed aside quickly when Christopher’s shadow swallowed him. His lover pulled aside his hands and pinned his wrists to the bed, and kissed him hungrily. The next moments were messy—pulling off Christopher’s clothes in haphazard motions, the man’s limbs imprecise with the density of the liquor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not just his limbs—his intent as well. Christopher was rougher than usual to Cleo’s more sober mind, more aggressive, carnal. But Cleo didn’t mind. He just wanted Christopher to have him—and that was what Christopher did, pushing him to the center of the bed, a hand holding down his collar, a hand grasping his hip, driving in over and over again like he meant to make an indelible mark. Tomorrow Cleo would feel the pain—but tonight, he just felt the pleasure. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, god, Christopher, that’s so...oh god…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher laughed breathily, low and hot, and murmured by his ear. “God’s not here to save you, baby. It’s just you and me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh fuck, fuck me, fuck me harder, please, oh—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher growled and pulled out. He flipped Cleo around and pulled up his bottom. Cleo buried his face in the sheets and moaned as Christopher pushed back in—and pulled out, and pushed in, some voracious intent to peak out his sensations in this tryst. His legs began to shake as Christopher began fucking him in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Hands traveled from his hips to his ass, kneading, spreading his cheeks. He felt a finger glide over his asshole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher pulled out. Cleo opened his eyes. Fingers slipped into his wet slit, only for a short moment. Christopher filled him with his cock once more, moving slowly. But his slicked fingers now pushed into Cleo’s other entrance. Cleo made a small noise, not quite a pleasured sound, not quite a protest. It did not feel terrible—just strange. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But as Christopher continued, Cleo realized what he was doing. He pushed onto his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Christopher, wait—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher wrapped an arm around Cleo’s chest and pulled him back for a brief kiss over the shoulder. He murmured, words faintly slurred, “My gift. To you. You’ll like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s head cleared a little through the lustful haze. Christopher—he was very drunk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—I don’t—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grunted something and grasped Cleo’s hips. Cleo felt it push against his asshole. When it would not go in, Christopher fingered him again, then pushed against him again, harder than before. He’d only—once before, an uncomfortable scene with a much smaller ex, who’d spent much longer preparing him. His heart pounded in sudden panic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait, Christopher, wait—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher forced himself in. Cleo gasped in pain. When Christopher kept pushing, Cleo tried to wriggle away, only to be caught in his lover’s arms. “Relax,” murmured Christopher, drunkenly kissing his shoulder. “Know it hurts a little. It’ll get better. You’ll like it. You’ll like it, I promise.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stilled. He let Christopher push deeper, gritting his teeth. He did it because it was Christopher, and even if it hurt, he felt safe in his lover’s arms. But a part of him was beginning to panic. He grunted quietly in pain, hoping his lover would hear and ease, but Christopher kept going, all the while keeping Cleo pressed flush to his chest. And then he was filled to the brim, and he was still searching for that pleasure his lover promised. It was just discomfort. No. Pain. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher began to slide out and thrust. It burned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“W-wait—just—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harder?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No! Christopher—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You asked for harder.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s too much, please, slow—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Want to fuck you harder. Want to drive you crazy, baby. Love it when you lose it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A shiver of fright ran down Cleo’s spine. He wasn’t right. He’d had far too much to drink, and the lust—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher suddenly drove in hard, far too hard. Cleo cried out in pain. His next thrust was smoother, slicked, but the burn was harsher. The force was just as terrible. He began to pick up speed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“S-stop—Christopher, I don’t want this—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ragged groan drowned out his voice. Christopher either had not heard his words—or he let them drive his lust deeper. He went on as Cleo cried out like he </span>
  <em>
    <span>liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>the sounds—and that horrified Cleo, who clawed his nails into Christopher’s hands and pleaded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It hurts, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurts</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Tapestry shuddered. The ceiling lights shattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher stopped abruptly. He released Cleo in the dark, who collapsed forward onto the sheets. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you do that?” whispered Christopher, sounding faintly more sober. He pulled out, drawing a soft whimper. “Cleo?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo was trying to keep from crying. It wasn’t the pain so much as the fact that it was Christopher. No, no it wasn’t Christopher. It was the fucking liquor. And now, an awful mixture of relief and new fright swallowed him, because no—he hadn’t touched the lights. But he knew who had. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to control his voice. “It’s okay. Just hurts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a ripple in the Tapestry. Cleo recognized the feel of it—Christopher’s magic. The nearby table lamp turned on, casting long shadows in the low light. Christopher shifted back, stirring, stilling. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, god…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pushed upright quietly, wincing from the pain. He could smell it now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, I’m...I’m so sorry. I...fuck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sounded sober now. Devastated. Cleo turned and glimpsed his lover’s withering sex, his shaking fingers. He wanted to vomit at the wet streaks of crimson. But he composed himself. “It’s fine. Just need a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can get a—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I just need a moment.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher fell quiet. The air was heavy. After a moment, the man slipped off the bed. “I’ll...I’ll wash up and take a walk. Need to...I should clear my head.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher grabbed his clothes and went to the restroom. The water ran for a long time. Cleo pulled the sheets over his lower body and listened to the splashing obscure everything else. When it finally stopped, Christopher returned looking terribly unfamiliar. Gone was his smile, his ease, his confidence, and even his warmth. Cleo wanted to be mad at him, but now he just felt heartbroken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher avoided his gaze and picked up his coat. “I’ll be back later. Unless you’d rather have the room to yourself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said Cleo. “It’s cold without you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked up. Wordless, he nodded and left the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo closed his eyes and exhaled in the quiet. This would pass. He could already feel himself forgiving his lover, because he believed that Christopher, had he been in control of himself, would never have gone so far. But when he was not in control of himself—when he was lost to his raw desire—</span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>was what he’d wanted. Cleo liked to believe that even intoxicated, he himself would never be so callous. Giving intimacy was an act of trust. One </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait </span>
  </em>
  <span>should have been all it took to stop. He hated that he had to ask so many times. He hated that his words could not reach his lover, not through the lust, not through the high. It made him feel small. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he had reached someone. And as much as it unnerved him, so too did it relieve him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned now to the shadowed side of the hotel room. He wondered why Christopher had not sensed anything, because the Tapestral stir was tangible to Cleo. Whatever the reason, it was for the better. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was afraid you would hurt him,” said Cleo. “So thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shadows then moved. Slowly, they formed the shape of a masked man. Seeing him again, Cleo smiled without meaning to. Smiled despite the humiliation and chagrin of being seen naked and ravished. None of that seemed to matter much anyway, because the atmosphere of lust and debauchery had become inconsequential. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Egyptian calamity walked soundlessly to Cleo’s side of the bed and there sat at the edge, an arm’s length away. He brought with him the scent of sweet incense and cinnamon, easing the thickness of sex and blood and alcohol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would have hurt you,” said the calamity. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice. It sounded to Cleo like—ah, the deep blue pool of a desert oasis. His own smile tugged at the edges.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think that’s the first time you’ve spoken to me,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity was quiet. A long moment passed, comfortably suspended, no threat. Because it was hard to tell where the calamity was looking, Cleo let his own gaze sweep liberally over the calamity’s form. At first it was just a soft survey, taking the harmless leisure of the moment to notice details he had missed in the past. But then he realized that something was off. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t seen the calamity in months. So he was slow to see the difference. But—his jewelry. The luster was fainter. So too was the luster of his hair—not just the luster, but the vivacity. The stray strands of his braid used to flow like tendrils of smoke, and today it was nearly as limp as human hair. And his skin, its copper tones were not as rich, not as dark. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could wonder long about it, the calamity reached out a hand. Cleo blinked, but did not move. The calamity placed a hand above his belly. The touch was nearly cold, nothing approaching its past warmth. Still, Cleo’s pulse raced, spine shivered. Goosebumps rose along his skin. As the hand slid gently down his belly, like a lover’s touch sinking beneath the cover of the sheets, deep, </span>
  <em>
    <span>intense</span>
  </em>
  <span> waves of desire swept through Cleo. Not lust, not quite—it was the more fundamental desire to be close. To melt into this touch. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart hammered. Guilt chased this feeling. He grabbed the calamity’s wrist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then his wound began to sting. But Cleo recognized this pain. It was healing magic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo could not heal what he could not see. Neither could the Andronicus doctors. But four times now, this calamity had cured his injuries without looking at them. Even back in the cave, with his visibly burnt arm, the calamity had been looking at his pained face, whispering comforting hushes. Oh, he had been so warm then. Vibrant, bright. Healthy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo tried to see through the mask now. He asked softly, “Are you unwell?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity hesitated. And then—the corner of his soft lips curved. He was smiling, faintly, but smiling. He shook his head, and then began to pull away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” said Cleo. He held onto the calamity’s arm. “Suetekh. Is it your name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity tilted his head, then nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you stay a little longer? Will you talk with me?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The calamity paused again. He parted his lips to speak. But after a hovering moment, what came through was only a quiet breath. He covered Cleo’s hold with his free hand and gently freed himself from that grasp. But he did not let go of Cleo, not just yet. He lowered his head. He lifted Cleo’s hand. His lips hovered over the knuckles, his soft breath sweeping Cleo’s skin, sending thunder up Cleo’s spine—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there he stopped. His lips did not touch Cleo’s skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a moment, the calamity released Cleo, slowly, like it pained him to do so. Cleo’s fingertips chased after his touch, not a conscious effort, just their own reaction to the loss. The calamity stood and gazed down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He said, “If he cannot love you when he is at his worst, then he is not worthy of loving you at all.”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo exhaled softly. He did not know what to say, aside from two words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before the </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t go </span>
  </em>
  <span>left his lips, the calamity vanished into smoke, into air.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo folded his empty hand to his belly. He closed his eyes, inhaling the last of the incense and cinnamon. He could almost hear Christopher’s cold lecture, see Maz’s furious eyes. But still the emptiness settled on him like a familiar blanket, and he wished—he just wished, a few more moments. A few more words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ah, but what was he thinking?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What good would that do?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even the best of calamities had no place in his life. And perhaps that was why Suetekh kept his far distance. Cleo just couldn’t shake the feeling that the smothered ache in his chest was trying to tell him something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sighed and slid off the bed. He washed. He tossed the dirtied bedsheet on the ground, and then he tucked beneath the covers, waiting for Christopher. Unconsciously his fingers drifted to his throat, his collar, tracing the bare skin. This time, without the pressing distractions and the aggression from Maz and Christopher, the image of his calamity lingered in his mind. He wanted, so badly, to lift that mask. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, he managed to steer his thoughts back to his lover. And eventually, perhaps an hour later, Christopher quietly returned. Cleo had left the lamp on because he had no intention on sleeping yet, so when he turned, Christopher’s tired surprise was illuminated by the light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re still awake,” he murmured. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was waiting for you,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher looked down. He stripped off his outer garments and walked to the other end of the bed, where he sat with his back to Cleo as he pulled off his socks. Cleo crawled over and slipped his arms around that waist, tucked his head against those shoulders. Christopher paused and slid a hesitant hand over Cleo’s arm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you okay?” said Christopher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not entirely,” said Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher turned around. Cleo cupped his face and found his gaze. He didn’t feel right after what had happened, but one mistake was only one mistake. It could be fixed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you make love to me?” he murmured. “I don’t want us to sleep like this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christopher inhaled a shaken breath. He kissed Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So that was how the night went, and come morning, all was soft again. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>and so, shit goes down, FINALLY</p><p>leave me your thoughts &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Thursday | Jan. 6, 2022</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of Barcelona was beautiful, as were the days that followed. Cleo was informed of his official certification by mail, and on Monday, he returned to the Institute for the brief inauguration ceremony and to pick up his new ID badges. Tuesday and Wednesday, he traveled to Ecuador with Christopher and Amalia to deal with a string of horrors and a nascent forming calamity. On Thursday, he was back at home, baking cookies with Shuri while Dani was out with her boyfriend and Jules was meeting up with some high school friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were just laying out the finished batter on the tray when his phone rang. Cleo glanced over at where it laid in a clean corner of the counter. The caller ID read </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yisroel Jostad. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That was...very unusual. A first, in fact. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shuri, can you turn down the TV?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shuri wiped her hands on a towel and went to fetch the remote. Cleo rinsed and dried his own hands and simultaneously answered his phone. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yisroel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I heard about the Games,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” she said in the usual dry voice. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Congratulations are in order, I suppose.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He chuckled and caught his phone with his hand. “I appreciate it. Does this mean you’ll stop turning me away from your missions?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had happened twice before. Missions with Christopher tended to restrict Cleo to B Grade horrors, since his lover excluded him from any assignments involving warlocks since Ukraine. Cleo understood—Christopher still felt guilt over what had happened, and he wasn’t going to move on from it until they’d found the French pack and dealt with the lot properly. Christopher rarely picked up A Grade calamities because those tended to be assigned by the Board rather than posted for public selection, and as talented as Christopher was, the Board was filled with self-absorbed mages who refused to believe someone as ‘limited’ as Christopher could best them in exorcism—never mind the occasion where he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>accidentally </span>
  </em>
  <span>run into a calamity and dealt with it solo. So unless backed into a corner, they handed the A Grade missions to people like Yisroel, renowned for their magical capacities. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sadly, Yisroel was extremely selective about her team, if ever she decided to run with one. Cleo had asked her once, begged her another time, both times to be shot down instantly and consoled by Maz. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not you, </span>
  </em>
  <span>said the old man with a trace of humor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s her. Really. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>A certification is little more than a paper stamp</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Yisroel. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>If I want you, I’ll invite you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, thanks in advance, I guess.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>In any case, I’m not calling to congratulate you. I just thought it was appropriate as a peripheral matter. I need you to deliver a message to Maz Lan. Or better yet, tell him to call me. Tell him it’s important, related to the Aljueran remnants.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Me?” said Cleo, confused. “You can’t reach him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She paused. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I thought he’s been with you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. He messaged me on the 26th of December saying he had something to take of. I haven’t...I haven’t heard from him since.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he thought nothing of it, because it was Maz Lan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Surely, nothing could happen to Maz. Right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yisroel? Did he tell you what he was doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>No</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she said after a pause. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>He left me a similar message. But I assumed it was related to your training, because he said he would be in Boston.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Boston?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had called Maz on Sunday to report the results of the Games. It had gone to voicemail, and he’d received no call or message back since. He had assumed it was like the time Christopher ghosted him for a month—in deep Siberia, without service. But if Maz was supposed to be in a metropolitan area… No. He’d probably relocated. Or left his phone. Or something. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I haven’t seen him,” said Cleo, “so why else would he be in Boston?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>His home base is in Boston</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” said Yisroel. It was news to Cleo. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>He might be working on something there.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That doesn’t explain why he hasn’t called back. We should check in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’d be surprised. But I agree.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She sighed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m in Ashgabat right now, so you’d have to go.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the address?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave it to him. Cleo waved over a notebook and a pen and quickly scrawled it down. He blinked in surprise at how close it was. His mind began to run, worry layering quickly as he considered the possibilities, as he replayed that Christmas evening. The odd urgency in those parting moments—was it related? Probably. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>And if he’s there, remember to tell him about the Aljueran. Tell him it’s urgent. Understood?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I got it. Can you get the Institute to run a tracer on his phone in the meantime?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s probably not necessary.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yisroel, please. Call it gut instinct. Just run the tracer.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hesitated. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine. I’ll forward you the results when I have them</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hung up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo?” said Shuri. “Is everything okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at his sister, peering from across the counter with a worried frown. He couldn’t leave her in the house alone, even if it was warded. “We might have to put a pause to the cookies,” he said. He dialed Dani, who picked up after three rings. “Dani? Listen, I’m so sorry to interrupt your date, but I have a bit of an emergency. Could you come home and watch your sister? Isaac can come too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Uh, yeah, of course.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” She said something to her boyfriend. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Is everything okay?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, just need to get in touch with Maz about something urgent. He’s not picking up the phone, so I’m going to stop by his place.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, yeah. We’ll be there in fifteen.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Dani.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uncle Maz is missing?” said Shuri after Cleo hung up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t said as much over the phone, but Shuri must have gleaned it from the earlier call. He smiled regardless, because it was pointless for his siblings to worry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s avoiding the phone, probably,” said Cleo. “Don’t worry about him, Shuri. He’s even more super than superman.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you’re worried about him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo rubbed the back of his neck. “I worry about everything, don’t I? Help me tidy up the living room. Isaac’s coming over.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That cheered Shuri up briefly. While she fixed the sprawled notebooks and markers in the living room, Cleo hurried upstairs to grab a change of clothes. He spotted Maz’s gift—the Olorun Scythe—and tucked it under his jacket. He debated calling Christopher—but Christopher was out on another potential Dancer trail with some Housemates, and it wasn’t like his lover could just drop everything and come back. For Maz Lan, of all people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo dressed and returned downstairs. He paced about the front windows a little impatiently. At last, a familiar blue car pulled up in the driveway. He met Dani and the boyfriend outside—for the third time, thank god, so he did not have to waste time with cordial introductions. He just gave them a quick wave, apologized and thanked them, and then hurried on his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He drove straight to neighboring Somerville. It took him eight minutes to speed through the traffic, and he arrived at 5:48 PM, past wintertime dusk. Maz always declined to answer questions about his posts outside the Institute, but it turned out that his home base was in a polished luxury apartment near the urban center. At this hour, people flocked the streets. Cleo parked his car in a nearby lot, hoping he would not be towed, and spelled his way through a back door. He hurried up to the third floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz’s apartment was second to last down the hall. A package laid in front of its door. The bottom of the package looked like it had been soaked by snow or rain, then dried over time. Cleo picked it up and pressed the doorbell, and knocked on the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz? Maz, it’s Cleo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No response. He swallowed and glanced down the corridor. Seeing no one, he spelled an opening in the door and stepped into the dark apartment. He felt no expulsion wards. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz?” he called again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment was quiet. He flicked on the lights, which illuminated an expectedly pristine space. Maz was a cultured minimalist, adorning his living room with one couch, one table, and a calligraphy script on the wall. His kitchen sported a clean counter with a microwave, a rice cooker, a water boiler, and a bamboo plant. Cleo dropped the package on the counter and checked the plant. The water was depleted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He checked the refrigerator next—and coughed at the smell of rotten fruit. Swearing softly, he returned to the package and tore it open, finding mundane office supplies inside. So he looked for an office, any trace or clue of where Maz could be, and hoped to god this would not turn out like one of those horror movies where he’d find a body instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He came across the bedroom first. At first glimpse, it looked flawless—tucked sheets, tied curtains. By then Cleo was hoping he’d broken into the wrong apartment, because in a place as kempt as this, there was no way the owner would intentionally leave his one plant to die and rotten fruit in the fridge. Except then he spotted the twin closet doors, and there could be little doubt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo checked the first door. It opened to a regular closet of clothes. He touched the second door, feeling waves of the Tapestry as he wrapped his fingers around the knob. This door should not be spelled to recognize his access, so it should open to an empty closet, as when Dani had opened his own closet door. And when Cleo pulled the knob, it did open to a closet. Just not an empty one. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked down at the small black case hidden inside. He knelt slowly. As he reached for the case, the Tapestry around it rippled thickly. This case—it had been spelled. Warded. Nothing else in Maz’s apartment so far appeared to be warded, so why choose to hide the one protected object </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>, where those denied access to the portal would find it by default?</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Cleo pulled out the case. He tugged at the latches. To his surprise, despite the warding, they gave way easily. Perhaps it held a decoy? He opened the lid anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A necklace laid inside.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A stunning pendant with the lapis lazuli body of a beetle—no, a scarab. An Egyptian scarab. Its golden wings fanned out with breathtaking intricacy, hoisting above its head a small amber sun. Time had faded the gold toward silver, and the imperfect, hand-crafted artistry was a thing of ancient history. This pendant was hundreds—no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>thousands </span>
  </em>
  <span>of years old. And it was…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beautiful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had only this thought as he clasped his hand to his collar. His heart throbbed. His head ached. It was difficult to breathe. What sort of magic was this? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Was </span>
  </em>
  <span>it magic? Or was it just…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked. He wiped the sudden tears off his face and took the necklace into his hands. He ran his thumb gently over the blue back of the ancient scarab, and then tucked the necklace into his pocket. If Maz wanted it back, he could hand it over later. But he didn’t want to leave it here when the wards were vulnerable, when the owner had been long absent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Remembering that Maz was his priority, he returned the empty case to the closet and took a quick peek in the adjacent bathroom. Nothing out of order. As he was returning to the hall, his phone buzzed. It was a message from Yisroel.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ran the tracer</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it read. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Last readable location was in the Milton region of Blue Hills around 10 PM Dec 26. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Blue Hills?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the forest reserve, maybe a twenty minute drive away from here on I-93. So Maz’s business had been in Boston. Maybe he was still hiking around now with a dead phone. But charging stations were easily accessible, and it had been twelve days. What could he be looking for? He’d left Cleo’s apartment with that peculiar stiffness in his expression. What was he…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It clicked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” whispered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dodged back into the bedroom. He hurried to the desk and fumbled through the drawers. Not here. He exited and returned to the living room—scanned the space. Not here. He went down the opposite hall, toward the apartment den—the office. He turned on the lights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an innocuous office. One filled cabinet. A printer. A lamp. A chair. A desk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And there on the desk, it laid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s head swam from the thunder in his chest. He stumbled forward, trying to keep calm. Compartmentalize. Like concepts in combat magic. With a shaking hand, he reached for the book that Maz had left on his desk. A hole gaped through the cover and the pages, where a blade had viciously left its mark. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Notre-Dame de Paris, </span>
  </em>
  <span>by Victor Hugo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo lifted the book to his chest. His trembling worsened, so badly he needed to dig his bones into the damaged cover and shut his eyes. He fought to control his breath. Slowly, he regained a disjointed composure and opened the book. The French words—they were gone. In their place were runes mimicking the hieroglyphs of ancient Egypt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to the back cover, where the owner had scrawled his name and address. He stared at the name. He pulled out his phone and opened a web search. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Seth El-masry. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>A professor of history at Harvard University. Publications in the Argead and Ptolemaic dynasties, in Byzantine Egypt, in the Alexandrian transition of the Late Dynastic Period. He joined the faculty in 2016. The year Cleo began college. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth El-masry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s shaking finger tapped the search bar. He deleted </span>
  <em>
    <span>El-masry</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He searched just Seth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scrolled past the Biblical references. There, in the middle of the page, was the Wikipedia log.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth. Also known as Set, or Suetekh. The Egyptian god of war, chaos, and storms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo slipped his phone into his pocket and stumbled back to the wall. He gazed up at the top shelf of the cabinet, not registering any of its contents. Memories of the Liquid Emporium resurfaced, drowning him in the enchanted moments. Those beautiful eyes. That indelible smile. He should have known. The unholy, inescapable attraction he had felt was not the mere product of human chemistry. And it was the same thing he’d felt in his dreams, in the presence of his calamity. Now it all made sense. Now, all the disjointed pieces he had been afraid to put together fit into the awful puzzle he had been suspecting for months, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>made so much sense. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Maz had found the calamity he had been searching for all this time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took a breath. He pushed off the wall and stumbled out of the office. His steps picked up pace. Soon, he was running out to his car, propelled by terrified thoughts among the chaotic revelation. He plugged Seth’s book address into his phone GPS, and he sped from Somerville back to lower Allston. After what simultaneously felt like seconds and hours, he arrived at a traditional red brick apartment, sheltered by tall, barren trees. Snow had fallen recently, and someone had left a snowman collapsed in the middle of the walkway. Cleo kicked aside the head and spelled his way through the main doors. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The apartment number was 402. Top floor. Front view. In the corridor, a drunken couple was making out without a care in the world. Cleo shoved past the man, who stumbled and cussed after him. He didn’t hear it. He clutched </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Hunchback of Notre Dame </span>
  </em>
  <span>close to his chest, his pulse filling his head as he reached his destination. He debated breaking the door. But because people were watching, he knocked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seconds passed. One, two, five, eight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The knob turned. The door opened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out seeped the aroma of cardamom and parsley and cinnamon, the sound of mellow modern music. For a moment he thought he’d gotten the wrong place. But then he looked up, and there was Seth, standing in a beige sweater and soft slacks. His thick lashes fluttered in surprise, and then his lips spread into a faint smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo. I wasn’t expecting you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His voice. It wasn’t quite as reverberant as the calamity’s, but a careful listener could not be mistaken. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo kept his face expressionless. He held out the gifted book. Seth lowered his gaze to its torn cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came to return this,” he said quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth glanced up. His smile was fading. He reached forward tentatively, but Cleo retracted the book to his own chest. Seth seemed to understand and stepped back—</span>
  <em>
    <span>limped </span>
  </em>
  <span>back—making space for Cleo to enter. The door closed gently behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took in the space with attempted clinical attachment, which failed because everything he saw did something to his heart. A wooden bookmark in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Palace Walk</span>
  </em>
  <span>, by Naguib Mafouz, which Cleo only recognized by the cover because the words were in Arabic. A jar of chocolates on the living room coffee table, which sat lonely without couches or chairs—just a woven mat. Rows of bookshelves with hundreds of classics, others piled in nearby stacks. Pieces of decor interspersed with the pages, a jade Bonsai, an African elephant, a dreamcatcher, a set of Russian dolls—dozens more. A chipped dining table with only a single chair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At the moment, from the state of the kitchen, it appeared that Seth was making dinner. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>How atrociously normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I apologize about the mess,” Seth said politely. “I wasn’t expecting—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had pinned his gaze. Seth hesitated, tilting his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo threw the book onto the table. He glared at Seth. “Where is Maz Lan? What did you do to him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth’s gaze flicked away. “I don’t know who that is. Perhaps...you have the wrong person.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah. I see. You want to play, do you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo walked to the dining table. He reached into his pocket and fished out the scarab necklace. He didn’t fully understand what he was doing—he just had an instinct. He just felt his heart on the verge of shattering, because now he understood everything, and Maz had warned him, and Maz was gone. He slapped the scarab necklace on the table and he drew the Olorun Scythe. Seth shouted for him to stop. Cleo’s eyes threatened to burn again, but he was so angry, so betrayed, so </span>
  <em>
    <span>heartbroken </span>
  </em>
  <span>and he didn’t even understand it all. He thrust the blade down toward the necklace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t reach. A copper hand gripped the blade, blood pouring over the table, the scarab. Seth had stumbled over, nearly collapsing against the table to stop his strike. Cleo stared at the blood, shocked, shaking. He looked up at Seth, whose gaze pleaded with him, who shook his head gently. Seth was holding onto the table for balance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth was injured. Seth had been pale when he came by the Barcelona hotel, and in this human form, he was not stable on his feet. His injury had not healed, because it had been dealt by Maz, with the other Scythe of Olorun. As Cleo realized this, he remembered Maz’s words. Seven lashes on any vessel would expel its host from this world. He looked down at Seth’s bloodied hand. What number was that?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His vision blurred. He choked back a sob.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let go,” he whispered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t break it,” said Seth. “Please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then tell me what you did to Maz! Did you kill him?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t kill anyone,” said Seth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then where is he?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth did not answer. His gaze fell like he would not answer. In a surge of anger, Cleo tightened his grip on the Scythe. Seth released the blade. Cleo lifted the dagger and pressed it to the calamity’s throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth gazed at him, his eyes sorrowful, but his lips closed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t kill you until I have my answers, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>cut you. How many is it, Suetekh?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A pause. Seth said softly, “This would be the sixth.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sixth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A deathly cold settled in Cleo’s bones. Seven cuts made before the scars of the others faded. But some scars took years to fade. Some scars never faded. The sixth. And then…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pulled the blade away. It fell from his hand, clattered against the floor. His empty threat vanished, replaced by the shame that he could not carry it out, by the fear he had for Maz, the fear he had for Maz’s could-be killer, the confusion, the conflict, the anger and betrayal and pain—and the longing for the looming softness, forgiveness, and warmth in front of him to just step a little closer, to just hold him. Like he could sense it, Seth cupped Cleo’s face with his clean hand and thumbed away the spilling tears. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hated how much he wanted that touch. He gripped Seth’s shirt in fistfuls and shoved him. But he didn’t let go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Give him back,” he said through the tears. “Give my brother back to me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A wave of sudden emotion crossed the calamity’s face. He whispered, softly, “Oh.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where is he? Where is he, Seth?!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth shook his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he could finish that sentence, Cleo’s phone rang. The mundane tune seemed to halt time. Or perhaps begin the flow of it again. Cleo had half a mind to ignore it, but he needed his composure back. He released Seth and fished the phone out of his pocket, blinking in surprise to see Jules’s number. He put his predicament aside and answered immediately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jules?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I presume this is Mr. Sullivan speaking?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A woman’s voice, unfamiliar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who is this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman chuckled. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>The phones do distort our voices, do they not? As does the transfiguration of shadows. Bonjour encore, mon ami.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo’s blood went cold. He looked up at Seth, who was watching quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You...where is my brother?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Safe and sound, I promise. He is merely asleep at the moment, so I thought I would call you to collect him.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to him? </span>
  <em>
    <span>What did you do, you fucking bastard</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Nothing untoward. Nothing that cannot be reversed. Unless, of course, you dally too long and the rot down here smothers him. He’s waiting for you in Steinhart Hall, in Boston. Have a pleasant reunion, Mr. Sullivan</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>and oh, please do give your Egyptian friend our special regards.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The call ended. Cleo dug his fingers into the phone, a fraction away from crushing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this a dream?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A nightmare?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No. He needed to stay grounded. He could not afford to break apart. Not here. Not now. Not anywhere, not ever, not until the people he loved were well and safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He lowered his phone and met Seth’s gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maz Lan,” he said again. “If you won’t tell me where he is, then tell me this. Is he still alive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a pause, Seth nodded. Cleo closed his eyes briefly. It would have to be good enough for now. When he opened his eyes again, it was to retrieve his dagger from the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will find him,” said Cleo, “if it’s the last thing I do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, he started for the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cleo, wait.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He glanced back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth held the scarab pendant in his clean hand. He took a napkin from the counter box and wiped away the blood as he approached. He offered the pendant in his palm, as gently as if offering his own heart. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t break it,” he said softly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo took the scarab. He suppressed the feeling in his chest as he tucked the pendant in his pocket. Without another word, he left the calamity’s apartment and hurried to Steinhart Hall. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b><em>Thursday </em>| <em>Jan. 6, 2022</em></b>
</p><p> </p><p>Steinhart Hall was located in the heart of Boston, across from the city’s renowned Commons and amidst a bustling metropolitan street. To the typical passerby, it presented as a piano shop. But the actual hall was buried four floors below the ground, a long-abandoned concert auditorium awaiting reconstruction. Cleo would not have known this were it not for his lover—six years ago, a pair of workers using the underground hall as storage had been found bloodless and mutilated, an incident hushed and passed on to the Institute. The warden who took care of the hall’s long-time haunting horror was none other than Christopher, who lived a few blocks away.</p><p>Maybe the Dancer chose this location by coincidence. Maybe it was deliberate. Either way, it terrified Cleo that his brother had been <em>left </em>there. He wasn’t asked to come alone. He wasn’t asked to bargain. He had simply been told to collect Jules.</p><p>
  <em>Nothing untoward. Nothing that can’t be reversed.</em>
</p><p>Was it possible? Was it even <em>possible</em>?</p><p>He arrived at the piano shop across the Commons at half past six. The shop had just closed, but it was no matter. He forced the door open, breaking the locks with magic. As soon as he did, he felt it.</p><p>The violent Tapestry, beneath his feet.</p><p>His body went numb. He stumbled forward, trying to keep sane for the dozenth time today. The stairwell leading underground was easy to find. He ripped away the restrictive chain and hurried down, shoving past the doors, throwing an orb light into the dark, thick-aired wellway. Old paint peeled from the walls and dark stains dirtied the steps. The colonnades were chipping. The red walls were rusting. It was a ghostly spiral down, every sound echoing in the acoustic chamber—his footsteps, the labored breaths. And then he saw.</p><p>In the center of the abandoned hall, where furniture had been unceremoniously stacked in storage, laid his brother. Jules had been left curled on his side, skin as pale as stone in the orb light. Cleo stopped breathing and ran down, knocking into furniture, his head nearly splitting in panic as he sank to his knees. The Tapestral violence came from his brother’s body. And his brother’s skin was icy cold to the touch.</p><p>“No,” whispered Cleo. “No, no, no—oh, god, please—Jules! Jules, wake up, wake up…”</p><p>He shook his brother, whose labored breaths thickened. Hitched.</p><p>It was the only warning Cleo had before Jules sharply twisted his head and peered up at Cleo. That movement was not natural. The way he blinked, slowly, his eyes glistening—it was not natural. His lips twisted into an eerie smile.</p><p>“<em>Cleo….</em>”</p><p>Cleo lost his breath, stunned.</p><p>Jules lunged for him. Cleo cried out as he was shoved against an idle desk. Compartmentalize—he’d trained enough to react instinctively after the first strike, dodging a second swing from his brother. But he couldn’t fight back, and soon Jules threw him on his back and crawled over him. Cold hands clasped around Cleo’s throat, squeezing. He gasped for breath.</p><p>Jules peered down. Cleo tried to say his name, but could only manage soundless chokes. He was losing oxygen, and Jules—Jules leered, his fingers clutching tighter. His hazel eyes began to leak tears and his grin began to distort, and that was when he began to laugh—this horrible, pitched sound—an unholy, mad laugh that vacillated between hyenic crowing and desperate sobs.</p><p>It was his brother. He was fighting the horror. Cleo wept and reached for his brother’s face, even as black spots filled his vision. What did he do? What <em>could </em>he do?</p><p>If this continued, he was going to lose consciousness. There was only one thing he could do.</p><p>He cupped Jules’s face in his hands, that vibrations of his laughter reaching his bones. He connected their vessels through that touch, feeling, briefly, the thick malicious energy. If he could take it into his own body, he would. But he could not, so he found the spinal nerve as Maz had taught him, and applied just the right pressure to render his brother unconscious.</p><p>Jules stopped laughing and collapsed on top of Cleo. Cleo gasped for breath. He didn’t stop gasping even after he had his oxygen, because he could not process what had happened. His brain understood it, but his spirit could not reckon with it. A horror. Forced into his brother. He wrapped his arms around Jules and sobbed.</p><p>How had this happened?</p><p>Why?</p><p>
  <em>Why?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nothing that can’t be reversed.</em>
</p><p>Shaking, Cleo blinked away the tears and pushed upright. He cradled Jules in his arms, unwilling to let go. He was so cold. With one hand, he kept Jules’s head buried against his chest. With the other, he dug around for his phone. He forced his hand steady and called Yisroel.</p><p>“<em>Cleo? Any updates on</em>—”</p><p>“Help me,” he pleaded. “Please. My brother—Jules—please, they put a horror in his body. I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”</p><p>“<em>A horror? Who did?</em>”</p><p>“The Dancers, the fucking Dancers! Please, Yisroel, just come help me, please…”</p><p>He broke into tears again.</p><p>“<em>Send me your location. I’m on my way now. Cleo</em>—<em>did you find Maz?</em>”</p><p>Cleo shook his head, trembling harder, biting back the sobs. Jules. Maz. Why couldn’t he protect his family? Why, if he was so gifted, couldn’t he even keep the most precious people in his life from harm? To have this happen to Jules minutes after confirming the truth about Maz, about <em>his brother</em>—he couldn’t take it. Everything was too much.</p><p>“Please, Yisroel, I am begging you…”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“<em>Understood. What’s your situation? Can you get your brother to the Institute?</em>”</p><p>Cleo told her he could meet her at House Morpheus. Even though Christopher’s apartment was only two minutes away, that portal led into Dionysus territory. Cleo would rather have his sisters see their brother like this than hand Jules over carte blanche to the Institute—no doubt they would sooner exorcise his horror than contemplate an alternative. But at least within House Morpheus, he had allies. He had people who could claim him as one of their own, who might stand up for his family. And he desperately needed their expertise.</p><p>An hour later, Jules was lying sedated in the Morpheus medical wing, being examined by a middle-aged Japanese man in a light yukata. His name was Harada Kiyoshi, and he was an arcane specialist who typically operated peacefully from his home in rural Kanazawa. Yisroel relied on him for much of her case analyses. As had Maz. In other words, Yisroel reassured Cleo, he was the best that House Morpheus could find. They would keep the case suppressed from the rest of the Institute, for now.</p><p>To keep the news from spreading, Yisroel ordered the medical wing temporarily sealed off. Apart from herself, Cleo, Kiyoshi, Kiyoshi’s assistant, and an attendant Morpheus medic, no one else was allowed inside. Yisroel herself was the last to arrive, and when she did, she went about the order of business with impenetrable composure. Her concern was only apparent because she had immediately dropped her business in Turkmenistan for this. Perhaps it wasn’t for Cleo so much as it was for Maz, because Maz would have scaled mountains in a heartbeat for Cleo. But Cleo was grateful regardless.</p><p>After checking up on Kiyoshi and Jules, Yisroel returned to the waiting room. She took the seat on the couch beside Cleo. Moments passed in silence. And then she spoke.</p><p>“The apartment. What did you find?”</p><p>She wanted to know about Maz.</p><p>Cleo was faced with a dilemma. He had been thinking about his younger brother—hadn’t the space of mind to decide what could be shared, what should be shared about the older one. In an ideal world, he would have days to parse through his thoughts—about Jules, about Maz, about Seth, about himself, and about the role the Institute and the Dancers played in all of it. But Yisroel was pressing for an answer now, and he only had seconds to think. What made sense? Who did he rely on? There were so many factors. So much unknown.</p><p>One thing was certain though. Yisroel was not a match for Seth. Perhaps she could come up with a team that could deal the final lashes of the Scythe—that was far from impossible. In fact, it was dangerously possible, and if he told her the truth, probable. But Cleo was not ready to let that happen either.</p><p>“What did you expect me to find?” he said at last.</p><p>Yisroel stared at him. “I don’t know. A note? A clue?”</p><p>He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know either. I didn’t find anything.”</p><p>He felt eyes narrow at him. He swallowed.</p><p>“He’s alive, though,” he whispered. “I know that much.”</p><p>Yisroel shook her head. “Of course he’s alive. He’s—” She paused and exhaled. “Forget it. If he doesn’t want to be found, he probably has his reasons.”</p><p>Cleo did not respond.</p><p>A few minutes more passed before the adjacent clinic room door opened. Kiyoshi stepped out with his young assistant. Cleo and Yisroel stood.</p><p>“Well?” said Cleo.</p><p>Kiyoshi removed his spectacles—enchanted spectacles, if the Tapestral density was anything to judge by—and tucked them calmly in his yukata pocket. “It is an interesting case,” he said with thick accent. “One that would not have come about had he worn my warding ring.” Kiyoshi sighed. “I did labor so intensely on those rings too.”</p><p>Cleo blinked. That was right—Jules <em>hadn’t </em>been wearing his ring. But it was irrelevant now.</p><p>“What do you mean, interesting? Can you get rid of the horror?”</p><p>“One can always be rid of a horror,” said Kiyoshi, “but in his case, we would be rid of his spirit as well.”</p><p>“That’s not—”</p><p>Kiyoshi held up a stern hand. “Let me finish, so you do not slaughter me with questions. I say the case is interesting because the Tapestral fluctuations mimic <em>warlock </em>transformation, <em>not </em>vessel possession. That is good news for you, because it means your brother’s spirit has a fighting chance to coexist with the horror. Yet your brother is no mage, so it would seem that the Souldancers have found a way to circumvent our known laws yet again.”</p><p>“You mean they made him into a mage before the transformation?” said Yisroel.</p><p>“Perhaps. I do not know the underlying mechanics. But your brother’s spirit is still rooted inside the vessel, which means he has not been traditionally displaced, as a horror might displace the soul of a dying body to take its vessel. That is the good news.”</p><p>“And the bad news,” said Cleo, “is that the horror is merging with him.”</p><p>Kiyoshi nodded. “As I said. Warlock transformation.”</p><p>“But it can be reversed,” said Cleo. “The Dancers said it can be reversed.”</p><p>“I do not know why they make such claims,” said Kiyoshi. “Two merged spirits create a new entity entirely. Reversal is both theoretically and practically impossible.”</p><p>“Then make it possible! If you’re the best arcanist this House has, then prove it!”</p><p>“Ah. Is this tantrum meant to incite me?”</p><p>Cleo lunged forward. Yisroel shoved him back and struck him across the cheek. He stumbled, cupped the burn. He stared up in shock, anger, and despair.</p><p>“Don’t be insolent,” said Yisroel, glaring. “Dr. Harada would do as much for your brother as he would for his own son. If he says it’s impossible, then it’s impossible.”</p><p>His eyes blurred. He shook his head.</p><p>“As soon as he stabilizes,” said Yisroel, “we’ll take him to Main and sever his channel. That will stop the horror from corroding him any further.”</p><p>“No. No…”</p><p>“It’s the best we can do, Cleo.”</p><p>“No, it’s not,” he said forcefully. “The Dancers claim it’s possible. They’re not lying. They have no reason to lie. There <em>is </em>a way to reverse this, and if you sever his channel, you are sealing his spirit and the horror inside. You are leaving him half dead and taking the possibility of revival away—”</p><p>“We have tried for centuries to reverse the transformation,” said Kiyoshi. “To no avail. You ask us to waste away months and years while your brother continues to deteriorate. A horror with a human vessel can become a calamity, or worse. Do you understand that?”</p><p>“You haven’t tried hard enough! Centuries—for centuries, you believed it was impossible to force a warlock transformation. For centuries you believed it was impossible to merge with a calamity! That’s been proven wrong. Irreversibility—it’s a fucking myth! It’s a myth and the Dancers are one step ahead—”</p><p>“Even if it is a myth, it’s one we need to buy for now,” said Yisroel.</p><p>“No—”</p><p>“Cleo. Your brother’s spirit still lives. If we don’t sever his channel now, in a few days, a few weeks, he could be consumed. Is <em>that </em>reversible? You are risking throwing away all that is left of him for a near impossibility.”</p><p>He opened his mouth to protest. <em>Try. Just try</em>. But the words lodged in his throat and the tears spilled out of his eyes, because she was right. Even if it was reversible, the Institute had yet to figure out <em>how</em>. That discovery period would eat away at what was left of his brother—more likely than not, vanish it into nothing before an answer could be found. His only hope was…</p><p>Was to find Corbeau and the Souldancers.</p><p>He stumbled back and sank into the seat, his mind racing. The Dancers had been ghosts since Ukraine. They would easily continue to be ghosts—unless, perhaps, Cleo reached out to them without Institute association. But if he acted freely, then he could be giving the Institute carte blanche with his brother. So—stabilization. It would take anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours, and then they would sever his channel. Before his brother stabilized, he would need to extract Jules from the Institute. Then what? Would he be labelled rogue, for harboring a warlock? What of Dani and Shuri?</p><p>In his peripheral, Yisroel sighed and guided Kiyoshi and the assistant toward the door. Something about giving Cleo the space to process. They exited, leaving him alone. He buried his face in his palms and tried to hold himself together. Think. Think.</p><p>Seconds later, the ceiling vent rustled. Cleo looked up.</p><p>And he watched, in shock, as a tan hand removed the square cover. A dyed ombre braid fell through the opening. Hathai peeked her head out and smiled.</p><p>“What…”</p><p>She dropped the cover and softened its landing with magic. She hopped out after it, dusting her uniform pants. “Heard you were in medical. Was worried something had happened, so I snuck over. I mean, I’m glad you’re not hurt, but I did hear about the brother. That’s shitty.”</p><p>Cleo rubbed his head. He did not want to deal with this right now. “Yeah, an understatement…”</p><p>“Need help?”</p><p>“How could you possibly help?”</p><p>Hathai grinned. “You want to reverse the transformation, right?”</p><p>Cleo lowered his hand and caught her gaze. “You know something?”</p><p>“Me? No. But my grandmum helped out with a certain lady’s private research efforts in the field. Far as I know, she got pretty deep in it before she was, uh, killed.”</p><p>“Who?” said Cleo. He thought he knew the answer.</p><p>“Iev Lan. Are you interested?”</p><p>“Fuck,” whispered Cleo. “Yes.”</p><p>“Perfect,” said Hathai. “Nana’s been <em>dying </em>to meet you since the Games.”</p><p>He stood up, hope hammering again. But—in the interim, what of Jules?</p><p>He glanced at the door. Hathai noticed.</p><p>“We’ll be back in bit,” she said. “He’s best off resting here until you’ve figured out the next step.”</p><p>Cleo nodded. He followed Hathai out the door, out the wing, back onto the third floor residences. Her port was on the south side, and the door had been ostentatiously decorated like a college dorm room. <em>Hathai Sopha </em>sat in painted letters on a taped sheet, alongside cut-out imagery of cats and birds and bubble tea.</p><p>Which made entering its room all the more jarring.</p><p>Behind the collegial door sat a round Victorian chamber, one which looked like it might properly attach to House Morpheus. About a dozen other doors lined the muted burgundy walls, each with an inscribed placard above detailing where it led. House Morpheus. House Kratos. House Dionysus. Manchester. Marseille. New York City. Singapore. Bangkok. It was the portal chamber of a legacy family, similar to one that Cleo had used with Christopher for a mission back in October.</p><p>Beyond this chamber was the corridor of a manor. The manor windows peered into a late night, grassy field in a rural area. Combined with the architecture and Hathai’s accent, he surmised that they were in Europe somewhere. He asked about it.</p><p>“We’re near Salisbury, in England,” she said. “This has been the family home for three generations now. Pretty empty at the moment—just my Nana, I think. She’ll be asleep, so I’m going to see you to the library and then wake her up.”</p><p>“You said your grandmother was friends with Iev?”</p><p>“Mhm. One of the few that stuck with Iev after she got involved with Seth. That’s the—”</p><p>“Egyptian calamity, yes,” murmured Cleo, tense.</p><p>“Huh. Our generation doesn’t spread that detail around anymore, and those that do know him by the <em>other </em>name. Guess you heard it from Maz Lan.”</p><p>“More or less.”</p><p>Hathai made a tsking noise. “I’m surprised he can even stand to say that name. Least my Nana wasn’t <em>there </em>when it happened. I mean, imagine having to witness someone do that to your sister...”</p><p>Cleo hesitated. He wanted to ask what, exactly, Maz had witnessed Seth do, but the question wouldn’t leave his lips. Before he summoned the courage, Hathai arrived at a pair of oak doors. Behind was a spacious manor library, gothic, thickly scented with parchment and candlewax—the place where Cleo was left to wait while Hathai went to retrieve her grandmother.</p><p>He wandered down the aisles of the shelves, arms crossed against the winter cold. It really was cold—almost unbearably cold as the seconds passed, as his bones began to shiver and his teeth began to chatter. Not quite the temperature of the room. The misery of it all. Two hours ago he was baking cookies with Shuri. Now? Now he was missing two brothers, one kept from him by god, the other being eaten by a horror. Life had a way of making impossible contortions of itself.</p><p>He reached the arching window and gazed out the glass. Snow layered the field, fresh snow, untouched, beautiful. In the visual peace, he tried to process pieces of what had happened this evening. It was supposed to be clarifying process, but his chest just hurt. His throat was dry. He wanted to close his eyes and wake into another reality. Anything other than this.</p><p>Moments later, the door opened again. Cleo gathered himself and turned.</p><p>Hathai held the door open for an elderly woman, whose hair had become as white and as soft as dust. An earthen robe draped over her slender figure, held with mature elegance and two folded hands. The gentle crinkles of her tan skin loosened as her eyes settled on Cleo. Perhaps some months ago, he would have been confused at that look. But he knew it now. Recognition.</p><p>It could not be because he was easily recognizable, or else the older wardens of the Institute would have labelled him by now. Or else Maz would not have permitted him to be seen by the previous generation of the Order. But he knew he shared some resemblance with Iev. It was why his body had changed. Why his features looked so different from the toddler in his photo album. And a lover, a brother, a dear friend—perhaps they could piece together the rest. Perhaps they sensed something others could not see on the surface.</p><p>Either way, this woman’s momentary pause broke into an unsteady smile as she came forward. It seemed like she was holding much back. Tears. Thoughts. Maybe more.</p><p>She stopped in front of Cleo and held open her palm.</p><p>“Cleo Sullivan. Am I right?”</p><p>She didn’t know that he knew. He didn’t know, not really.</p><p>He nodded. He took her hand. She squeezed it tightly. “And you are?”</p><p>“Naiyana Gao. You can call me—you can call me Nai.”</p><p>Cleo swallowed. “Nai. It’s good to meet you.”</p><p>Her smile flickered. She leaned forward and pulled Cleo into her arms for a deep embrace. The strength and tenderness of it touched his heart—broke it too, because he knew why, but he couldn’t remember. He was her lost friend, and at the same time, he was just Cleo Sullivan. A stranger. He glanced up at Hathai, who watched the interaction with sharp eyes. She lifted an eyebrow at him.</p><p>“I saw you at the Games,” Nai murmured softly. “I was so moved, Cleo. You could not imagine. I just had to see you. I just had to meet you.”</p><p>“I understand,” said Cleo.</p><p>Nai drew back. She searched his eyes. Cleo wanted to sit down with her, speak with her properly, perhaps without her granddaughter in the room. But this was not the time for it. Jules was dying.</p><p>He clasped her hands and said, “Hathai told me that you once worked with Iev on research to reverse warlock transformation. My brother—my brother, Jules Sullivan—he’s undergoing that transformation now. The Institute wants to sever his channel and save what remains, but I know there is a way to save all of him. I just don’t know what it is. Can you help me?”</p><p>“Oh,” whispered Nai. She looked down, perhaps thinking. “I wish I could, Cleo, with all my heart, but Iev...her research was unfinished. Or if it was, I was not privy to the completion.”</p><p>“Just tell me what you know,” he said patiently.</p><p>Nai nodded. She gestured them toward the burgundy couches, two in the corner, side by side. Cleo sat adjacent to the older woman, who asked Hathai to prepare some tea. When the young warden had left the room, Nai turned back to Cleo and continued.</p><p>“Iev took this on as a personal project,” explained Nai, “after a friend of hers had his channel severed. And, you see, because it was so personal, I could not give you the precise details from start to finish. She came to me for consultation at times, and I assisted her in...in harboring some subjects. So I can tell you, vaguely, what she found.”</p><p>Cleo nodded. “Please.”</p><p>“I must first clarify that it was not <em>reversal </em>of the transformation that she sought. True reversal is impossible, because two spirit, once merged, become like two glasses of water poured into the same cup. But the spirit of a horror is a spirit that has lost its human definition. When it becomes powerful enough to latch to a vessel, all that remains of the horror is its malice. And that malice, even when merged with a living spirit, can be purified.”</p><p>“Purified,” echoed Cleo.</p><p>Nai nodded, smiling gently. “The Order has always treated exorcism as the answer. Forceful expulsion of malicious energy until it is too weak to cling to this world. But there is so much we don’t understand about this world, or these worlds. What happens to the spirit once it has been expelled? Iev wondered if we were doing only more wrong to souls who had been damaged in life. She followed the theories of the rare few who had come before her who entertained a new method: catharsis.”</p><p>“You mean...resolving the source of malice.”</p><p>“In many cases, it is impossible. Most horrors form after they have lingered long enough to lose the remainder of their spirit. Their malice becomes all that defines them, so you could not resolve it without destroying them. But there are some cases. Accelerated horrors. Weak horrors. Warlocks.”</p><p>His pulse picked up. “If the malice is resolved, what remains is the living spirit.”</p><p>“And remnants of the afflicted spirit, if any.”</p><p>“How? How do you go about resolving the malice?”</p><p>“That is what Iev spent years trying to discover,” said Nai, “and I don’t know the answer. I was not sure if she ever did find an answer, but…” She gazed at Cleo, her lips curving softly. “I suppose she must have.”</p><p>Cleo searched her eyes. He put the pieces together slowly.</p><p>He lifted a hand to his collar. It was a half-conscious moment, which became conscious when he touched only skin yet again. Blinking, he reached into his pocket and found what he was looking for. He pulled out the ancient scarab necklace.</p><p>Nai saw it. Her eyes widened briefly. She whispered a soft <em>oh.</em></p><p>“I don’t remember anything,” he murmured. “I have nothing except impressions. I am a remnant...a remnant that became Cleo Sullivan.”</p><p>She grasped his hand, her hold fiercely strong. Their eyes met, and Cleo felt swallowed by the emotion, warmth, conviction. “A remnant is all she would need to become all that she once was. Don’t underestimate the spirit of Iev Lan.”</p><p>He couldn’t speak. Was he Iev? Was he Cleo? Both?</p><p>Did his memories and experiences make him a different spirit?</p><p>Or was he truly the same sister, lover, friend?</p><p>He wish he could dwell on the questions longer. He had so much to ask Nai. But Jules was dying.</p><p>“I need to know how she did it,” said Cleo.</p><p>“I understand,” said Nai. She paused. “The details surrounding her passing are not known to many. I was her closest friend, and I only knew what Maz Lan told me. Do you want to hear this?”</p><p>Cleo nodded. “Everything. Please.”</p><p>Nai released his hand. He cupped the scarab pendant in his palms.</p><p>“It was in the winter of 1990. Back then, Kamari Reiml, Claudine Pataluch, and Maz Lan were still within their prime. Our Centennial Legends. And they were supported by one of the strongest Order legions in history—over two dozen wardens who were broaching fifth tier manipulation. The Order has been feuding with the old calamities since time immemorial, but we rarely had the strength to challenge the greatest of them. Tiamat. Chac. Morrigan. Tezcatlipoca. Shiva. Izanami. Seth. They were beyond us.”</p><p>“I didn’t know there were so many,” said Cleo.</p><p>“There are more. And they are quiet. Every few hundred years, one might be roused to great catastrophes. Morrigan, the legend goes, has been active since her conception, stirring horrors here and there at her pure whim. We are currently in one of those peaceable eras where the old calamities deem not to disturb us. But the 1976 Tangshan earthquake, with near seven hundred thousand casualties—it was Chac.”</p><p>“I’ve read about Chac,” said Cleo. “History books. A Mayan god of chaos?”</p><p>Nai nodded. “He was beyond us, but not in the age of our prime. The Tangshan earthquake happened to involve the close family of the Order Council—what we now call the Institute’s Board. We fielded our best, and we brought down one of the most powerful entities to have ever existed. They say it was not even as difficult as they had expected. So the Order began to aspire a campaign. A faction moved to eradicate the old calamities with our legendary forces. To hunt them down.”</p><p>Cleo swallowed. His fingers tightened instinctively around the scarab. Nai noticed.</p><p>“Iev, of course, refused to participate. She assisted in the battle against Chac because he was a raging calamity. She assisted, too, when they challenged Izanami and the collateral came to be too much. But when they began hunting down Shiva, who had been silent for centuries and merely left benign traces, she moved to suppress the campaign.” Nai shook her head. “She didn’t have much support. That was when her involvement with Seth came to light. That was when the Order feared she had gone rogue—or perhaps taken in a horror without their knowing. So they gave her an ultimatum: turn over Seth, or sever her channel.”</p><p>Cleo blinked, stunned.</p><p>He shouldn’t be surprised that the Institute would do such a thing. Men always feared that which they did not understand—so it was why they exorcised horrors and calamities with so few questions. But all this time, he had seen himself as an attachment of the Institute. A protected member. It was chilling to think that his safety—integrity, at least—was actually so precarious.</p><p>“She ran,” said Cleo simply.</p><p>“She ran,” echoed Nai. “She went into hiding and continued her research. That was when I lost contact with her. But I knew she always intended to come back one day, to prove everything she meant to prove. Maz, he knew it too. Occasionally, I would hear from her through Maz. He was the only person she kept in contact with, because she knew the Order wouldn’t dare force Maz Lan to reveal her whereabouts. And then, one day, she missed a meeting with him. It was not the first time, so he was not worried. After all, it was Iev Lan.” Nai smiled briefly, faintly. “But in early January of 1990, he said he woke with a peculiar nightmare. Perhaps it was the magic of the Tapestry, but that was when he began to search for his sister in earnest.”</p><p>Nai paused. She looked down at her weathered hands.</p><p>“I know the rest from his account. The day after his nightmare, he located Seth in Giza because he had dreamed of the city. In a buried outskirt hideout. He came across a chamber first, one that had been clearly used for prolonged detainment and…” She looked at Cleo. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”</p><p>Cleo nodded.</p><p>Nai shook her head. “It was a torture chamber. The Order later confirmed that the blood, hair, other...parts...they were Iev’s. They suspect she had been held there for months. Maz would learn this later, but at the time he only followed the Tapestral rupture to the underground hall. And that was where he found Seth with his sister’s corpse.”</p><p>“He was certain Seth did it,” murmured Cleo.</p><p>“Anyone would be,” said Nai. “There was little doubt. Seth is among the few entities who would have the ability to detain Iev for months. And he had motive. He loved her as a calamity loved. He knew the Order was hunting for her and it was perhaps a matter of time. If the Order failed to sever her channel, perhaps they would kill her. And then, because her pure spirit would pass on immediately, he would lose her forever.”</p><p>Cleo was quiet. He did not want to believe it. But it was too easily true.</p><p>“Perhaps,” said Nai gently, “Iev arranged it with him. Her final experiment.”</p><p>“No,” said Cleo. “She would never do that to Maz.”</p><p>There was a quiet. Nai sighed.</p><p>“I suppose you’re right.”</p><p>“Keep going,” said Cleo. “What happened next?”</p><p>Nai nodded. “Maz didn’t just find Seth and Iev’s body. He found magnetic runes created by Seth. Seth had forced an accelerated possession using Iev’s malicious energy, capturing as much as what remained of her spirit as possible.” She touched Cleo’s cupped palms, where the scarab laid. He lifted a hand and looked down at the beautiful beetle. “In this. His first gift to her.”</p><p>“I...I found this in Maz’s apartment.” His pulse sped. His heart sank. “Maz did it. He purified the malice.”</p><p>And Maz was right now out of his reach.</p><p>“He might have,” said Nai, “but I don’t believe so.”</p><p>Cleo looked up.</p><p>“Seth escaped with Iev’s spirit that day. Maz hunted him for eight years. He said he finally located Seth in the spring of 1998, and in that encounter, he managed to wrest away Iev’s vessel. He came to me afterward, to put me at peace, I suppose.” She smiled faintly and shook her head. “He said he had destroyed the necklace. He said he had released Iev into the afterlife. I never quite believed him. He knew about Iev’s research, you see. And he loved her so much. So very much. So I didn’t believe he would simply exorcise her spirit like a common horror, not before trying all avenues to give her a true peace. As it turns out…”</p><p>“He must have transferred her spirit to a newborn. He...”</p><p>No. Now was not the time to agonize over morality.</p><p>“Spring of 1998...” murmured Cleo. “What you are saying is that it’s more likely Seth purified the spirit in those eight years, and Maz simply transferred it. He would have been with her during her research. He would have known how…” He paused, his heart skipping. “Seth. He knows how to save Jules.”</p><p>“Yes. Most likely.”</p><p>Seth. It was a far better choice than hunting down Corbeau.</p><p>He tucked his necklace away again and clasped Nai’s hands in gratitude. “Thank you. Thank you so much, Nai.”</p><p>“Are you going to find him? Seth?”</p><p>Cleo nodded. “I have to. I have to save my brother.”</p><p>Just then, the library door opened. Hathai appeared with a tray of tea. The timing was probably no coincidence—she had probably been listening in from outside. No, judging from the soft expression of awe on her face, she had definitely been listening.</p><p>Nai touched Cleo’s hand, drawing his attention back.</p><p>“Just be careful with yourself,” she said gently. “I don’t mean it the way Maz would mean it. For what it’s worth, I still have faith in Iev’s judgment even after what happened. But he <em>is </em>a calamity. He is not fully human in spirit like us, for better or worse.”</p><p>“I understand.” He paused. “May I ask you about her judgment? What did she say about him?”</p><p>“Ah. Not much. More to me than others, I suppose. But from what I…”</p><p>She drifted off as Cleo’s pocket vibrated. A few steps away, where Hathai was lowering the tray to the table, a cheery <em>ding </em>echoed through the room. They glanced at each other and simultaneously reached for their phones.</p><p>It was a message from the Institute.</p><p>
  <em>EMERGENCY ALERT: Ongoing assaults at HQ and MORPHEUS. Assaulters suspected to be Souldancers, numbers unknown. Emergency protocol in effect. All able wardens must immediately report to APOLLO for defense orders.</em>
</p><p>“There’s an attack on Morpheus,” whispered Cleo. “I have to go.”</p><p>Hathai dropped the tray on the table and caught his arm as he rushed past. “Slow down. We don’t know how many there are or what the situation is. If they’re targeting Morpheus, it’s probably for you. You need to—”</p><p>“My brother is in there,” said Cleo. “I need to go.”</p><p>“Then let me—”</p><p>“Hathai,” said Nai. Cleo looked over his shoulder and shared the older woman’s gaze. She nodded at him. “Go on. Be careful. I need to speak with my granddaughter before she joins you.”</p><p>Cleo glanced at Hathai. She squeezed his arm.</p><p>“I’ll be right behind you.”</p><p>He nodded and went.</p><p>Seconds later, he reached the portal chamber. He yanked open the Morpheus door—only to find an empty storage room. Emergency protocol—could that mean the Morpheus access portals had been sealed? He tried the adjacent Dionysus portal—and that one opened to a familiar corridor. Without another second wasted, he hurried back onto the Institute campus and ran down the frantic halls. </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Friday | Jan. 7, 2022</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wardens were pouring into the Dionysus corridor. Clamor filled the night air. The assault had clearly not reached this house yet—but when Cleo glimpsed out the northside window, he spotted light and smoke in the high distance. Main headquarters was burning. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzed again. He tugged it out and glanced at the caller ID. He quickly answered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank god,” he said, not losing pace. “Where are you?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m on my way back now. Where are you? Are you safe?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in Dionysus. But they have my brother. Jules is in House Morpheus—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ, fuck. Just</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>just wait for me, okay? I’ll be there in twenty minutes</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t think I have twenty minutes,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Maz</span>
  </em>
  <span>—</span>
  <em>
    <span>is Maz there?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hesitated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I’ll be careful. Find me when you get back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Cleo, wait, this is</span>
  </em>
  <span>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, Christopher. It’s my brother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hung up. He placed a call to Yisroel next. She didn’t pick up. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With a curse, he reached the building exit. Someone called his name—Sullivan—but he did not recognize them and he didn’t have time to spare. So he ignored the voices and cut through the unpaved woodlands to House Morpheus. After a furious sprint, branches and winter wind lashing his skin, he arrived among a group of wardens around the perimeter of the House. At least two dozen, and more arriving—not approaching, just tensely gathered. A barricade. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The House itself was filled with turbulent Tapestral disturbances, unevenly distributed throughout the floors. But quieter than Cleo had expected. Some windows on the third and fourth floors of the west wing were broken. Smoke slithered out from the fifth floor balconies. A collision and a muted shout echoed from within, but no one started for the main doors. No—there </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>no main doors. All the entrances and exits had vanished, replaced by concrete wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo scanned the perimeter. There—Bax, from the Bones, ghastly but uninjured. He was not in uniform and looked somewhat out of breath, like he had hurried this way as well. Cleo ran up to him and grabbed his shoulder. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s going on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bax jolted with a start. “Fuck, Sullivan…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me—status, now.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Dancers have the building hostage,” said a woman’s voice. Cleo turned, seeing Yasha Hodzic of House Kratos. She looked generally unphased, except for a knot of tension between her eyebrows. “We’re not getting responses from any wardens on the inside, so it seems like they’ve blocked off communication. Our best guess is that they infiltrated through the portals and sealed off the exits before anyone noticed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one’s left the building yet?” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yasha gestured leftward. He followed her gaze to a medical mat some paces away—a mat with a sheet laid over a slender body. “Found her with a broken neck by the wall. Probably got thrown out of the fifth floor window.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He swallowed the leadening cold and faced Yasha. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We need to get inside. We can break through the walls, climb through the windows—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not my House, not my call,” said Yasha. She nodded across the field, where Cleo spotted Ethan Manzuick, Morpheus Head of House. “Manzuick handed out orders to wait until we’ve got sufficient forces. Can’t say it’s a bad call. We’ve got reads on at least two S Grade disturbances in there, so it’s best we be cautious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are people trapped inside—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We know,” said Yasha. “In case you didn’t read the message carefully, Main is under attack as well. We don’t know what their goal is. We can’t just send our wardens in to die.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck,” muttered Cleo. He eyed the perimeter. What was the best way in? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey—hey, Sullivan, where are you—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yasha grabbed his arm. Cleo pulled away. Just then, glass shattered in the near distance. They both turned toward the building, where from a fourth floor window, a body flew out. Golden hair flashed in the moonlight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Someone shouted. Someone lunged forward, thickening the air near ground to cushion the fall. Cleo ran over, skidding on his knees to her side seconds after she landed. It was Yisroel. Pale. Blood dripped from her mouth and nose. Blood lathered the back of her right hand, soaked the sleeve from her right shoulder. She was gasping for breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Terror filled Cleo. Not just at the sight of Yisroel like this—because it was Yisroel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned over and held her shoulders. A medic was quickly approaching. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yisroel—Yisroel, where’s Jules? Is he—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grasped his jacket and spoke with labored breath. It looked like she was losing consciousness—even so, her eyes pierced his, pleading. “...Aljueran...Tiamat...run…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With that, she passed out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yisroel?” whispered Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The medic arrived and pushed him aside. He blinked as they began to administer emergency aid. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aljueran. Tiamat. Run? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He scanned the field, his vision blurring. Those who had overheard looked frightened, shrank back from the walls. They were wardens, goddammit. It meant </span>
  <em>
    <span>protector. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But if they would not save his brother, he would. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo shook the disorientation from his head. He shut out the voices, Yasha shouting at him, demanding to know what Yisroel had said. He walked toward the walls, conjuring the concept of an entryway. Nothing happened. Either the enemy’s concept was stronger, or reinforcement runework had been set within. If it was the latter, there was no point forcing his way through either.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Five steps away from the nearest wall, where the main doors should be, Yasha and two others cut in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay calm, Sullivan,” said Yasha. “If they can do Jostad like this, we </span>
  <em>
    <span>must </span>
  </em>
  <span>wait for—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He cleared his mind. He sharpened his concept. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He jaunted behind her. Yasha stopped talking abruptly, shocked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before they could stop him again, he touched the spelled wall with his palm. This magic—he had not attempted it before. But he was sure that he could do it. Cleo closed his eyes and paced his breath. He drew the concept. He stepped forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A ripple of the Tapestry enshrouded him, like being momentarily submerged in water. And like surfacing from water, the sound of the clamoring field faded. The familiar air of Morpheus corridors greeted him. He opened his eyes, having passed through the barrier wall. He was standing in the foyer now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The medical wing was on the fourth floor in the north wing. If possible, he intended to get there unnoticed and extract Jules—or, if that was impossible, remain hidden until the opportunity to escape arose. So to avoid encounters, he kept a careful tab on his channel and nearby Tapestral ripples. He proceeded cautiously up the main stairwell and turned into a quiet corridor on the second floor. The five-floor wellway was two halls and a turn away. That was where he headed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just before the reached the bend, he felt a faint Tapestral stir. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That stir became a sudden wave, swallowing him. His senses disoriented. He blinked. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All of a sudden, he was standing in a dense forest—larch and oak trees, vividly green and not proper for the season. Soil and pine thickened the air. Shadows filled the dusky night. Birdsong twittered ominously, as birdsong in life never did. His heart dropped. It was field transfiguration. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And this place, this air…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was familiar.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah, </span>
  <em>
    <span>xiao gou gou</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How sweet to see you again.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ice marrowed his bones. Cleo pivoted on his feet. He faced a slate hill of rock, upon which was inscribed the Chinese characters of a tombstone. Incense sticks burned. Atop the slate hill, like a nightmare pulled from raw memory, was a woman in a white dress. Su Lingfei.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled at him with composed calm. Instinctive fear raced through his body—and then, ferocious anger. He had not forgotten the way she slaughtered his friends, his protectors. He would never forget the brutal way they died to her cruel whim—Liesette’s severed head, Kendi’s snapped neck, Ricardo’s gutted corpse. Slowly, and then all at once, his fear vanished beneath a tide of malicious hate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s very good to see you again too,” he murmured quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She flashed teeth. “I can tell you want to play. Maybe you are not </span>
  <em>
    <span>fei wu </span>
  </em>
  <span>after all.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Play?” he whispered. He reached beneath his jacket and withdrew Olorun’s Scythe. Lingfei’s eyes widened. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She opened her mouth to respond. Cleo vanished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He reappeared behind her back, aiming the dagger straight for her heart. But just as he was about to land the strike, a horrible hesitance staggered him. Lingfei was no horror. This was no release. Part of her was still a living human being. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His momentum slowed. Lingfei took advantage of the pause and teleported. Blood coated only the tip of his blade. Lingfei reappeared paces away, staring at him with pursed lips. He cursed himself, told himself—this was life and death, and not merely his life and death. If his brother needed him to kill, he would kill. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no time to doubt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like the puppy became a dog,” sneered Lingfei. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One out of seven,” said Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he vanished again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei was prepared for him this time. He knew she would be, so he double-jaunted and reappeared the second time to lash at her side. She conjured a black shield—some shadowish void—but the blade of Olorun sliced through, injuring her hand. Cleo was about to strike again when the forest grass beneath his feet stirred to grasp his ankles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He teleported two steps back. But again, the grass chased him—and would for as long as he ran. Flow of a fight—he could not stay on the defensive if he wanted to win. He sharpened the air around Lingfei, a dozen invisible blades hurtling toward her vessel. She must have sensed it—an advantage of field transfiguration, heightened affinity with the full field environment. And because it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>her </span>
  </em>
  <span>field, a mature field unlike Marchesi’s fragile white room, his conceptual control of the air was rendered automatically inferior. She grinned and him and dusted away his attack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He teleported again. Lingfei—she was living, and her vessel was human. It meant he didn’t need to achieve seven strikes if he could land just one fatal hit. So he aimed for her throat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he reappeared to land the next strike, he felt the Tapestral air compress instantly. Fast as lightning, intensive force came for his own throat—the same sort of aerial honing he had perfected. The same magic that must have killed Liesette, so quickly she hadn’t time to respond. Cleo did have the time—Maz had drilled instantaneous territorial defense into him a thousand times, because it was a core survival skill against S Grade combatants. He sharpened his vessel barrier. Because it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>body, just like this field was Lingfei’s field, he had the innate advantage against any trespassing magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The force collided with his skin. It did not injure him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But in his distraction, the snaking grass leashed his legs and calf—and burned like molten wires. He hissed in pain and disintegrated his leg—the first time he’d done such a thing, but it was instinctive magic, not so different from walking through the wall. He limped back, reintegrated but wounded, and lashed again at Lingfei with wind magic to keep her on the defensive. Blood dripped from his seared leg. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grass lashed out again. He dodged again. The pain disoriented him, made it harder to concentrate—and fear of the pain only exacerbated the problem. He was slowly beginning to fall into disadvantage. Where was Seth?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Was it the field?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Could Seth not materialize here because Lingfei had sealed them within her field? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo could not manage field transfiguration yet. Maz had not trained him significantly on it. So his only choice was to defeat Lingfei here—or disorient her concentration enough to slip out of her field, escape into the halls. And if the elements of the field bent to her advantage, then he would need to create </span>
  <em>
    <span>new </span>
  </em>
  <span>elements.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He landed atop a rocky surface clear of the lashing grass, out of Lingfei’s view. He knew he had only a moment before Lingfei warped even the rock, or did worse. So he exhaled to cleared his head. Lingfei heard and turned his way. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fire was the first thing he had ever conjured. He abstained from it because it was wild, destructive. But right now, wild and destructive was exactly what he needed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He summoned a firestorm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thick, voracious flames exploded from nowhere, swirling in a dance that licked up the grass and trees. All that was calm, ominous, and green became red and orange, chaotic and roaring. Lingfei screamed from the swallowing heat. Cleo vanished into the flames, concentrating on maintaining their volume, strengthening their intensity. Orange turned to yellow. Yellow wisped with white. Magic lashed blindly at him, unable to pin him down through the roaring fire. Foreign cusses howled through the noise. The snarls of shadow wolves echoed about him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He just needed to endure it a little longer—ignore the pain a little longer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lingfei heaved roar of frustration. She spat something at him. A moment later, the forest vanished—and with the concept distorted, Cleo’s flames vanished as well. He was back in the Morpheus corridor, with Lingfei at the end of the hall. She stepped toward him. He gathered the concentration to jaunt into a clean escape. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before he enforced the concept, a shadow appeared behind Lingfei. She’d not even time to blink before a copper hand shot through her chest. Golden bands. Nails as sharp as claws. Soaked. Lingfei gurgled as she looked down at the protruding hand, which squeezed a dying heart. The heart pumped one last time. And then the shadow clenched his fist, and gore splattered the walls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth pulled back his arm. Lingfei’s body collapsed to the ground. Her blood sizzled off his skin like evaporating water. Cleo’s own heart pounded in disbelief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He suspected Seth might come. But not...not like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was in his calamity form now. It was both taller and broader than his human form, truly daunting, godlike. But Seth had not fully recovered since his faded appearance from Sunday. Still, aside from the ghastly manner of Lingfei’s death, Cleo was glad to see him. He limped quickly forward. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Help me. Please. My brother is upstairs—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth stepped over Lingfei’s body and came to catch Cleo. Cleo grasped his arm, overwhelmed by the sudden relief, the thought that everything might be okay. Seth knelt and wrapped a gentle hand around Cleo’s wounded leg. The sting of healing magic flowed into his body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to leave this place,” Seth said quietly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. No, Jules is upstairs—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth grabbed his wrist. His expression was still hidden behind his mask, but he sounded tense. “Listen to me, Cleo. I cannot protect you from the enemies here. You must leave before they find you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And leave my brother here?” he said, incredulous, scared, defiant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I beg you—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth abruptly tore his gaze toward the ceiling. In a sudden heartbeat, the calamity swept Cleo into his arms and leapt for the nearest window. But before he reached—before he made that millisecond lunge—the ceiling above them cracked open and the window vanished to a slate of unnatural black wall. Seth maneuvered Cleo behind him and turned to face the figure that just landed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a woman. No. A girl. She must be younger than Jules—a girl with cinnamon skin and large hazel eyes, with two thick braids on either side of a heart-shaped face. She was dressed like a teenager: graphic t-shirt, tight skinny jeans, statement sneakers. She smiled like a teenager too, careless, cocky. But her presence—it was a subtleness in the air, but as expansive as the air.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” she said cheerily, “I knew it was you as soon as the Tapestry stirred.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How is this possible?” said Seth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Surprised?” said the girl. She waved a careless hand. “Don’t be. You should have known your old frenemy didn’t have much fight left in him. He practically submitted like a old dog. Well. Not quite. I did </span>
  <em>
    <span>sort of </span>
  </em>
  <span>have to work for it.” She leaned to one side and peered behind Seth, at Cleo. Seth tensed. “Is this her? The lover? She’s really as lovely as they say…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth lunged forward as his staff materialized.  The girl dodged back as an intense force ripped through the Tapestry. Cracks formed in the inner corridor wall—black ink hieroglyphs </span>
  <em>
    <span>painted </span>
  </em>
  <span>themselves across that wall, the floor, the ceiling—Seth’s magic. The girl laughed while Seth shouted at Cleo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Run!”   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo turned to do just that. But he’d no sooner stumbled two steps than a shadowy veil appeared in front of him. He stared, aghast, afraid to use his wall-passing magic on this unnatural construct. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So soon?” said the girl. “But we’ve not exchanged proper—oh—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The runework Seth had painted thickened with spiritual imbuement. The girl stumbled a little—clasped her nose as it began to bleed. Seth lunged forward with his staff, a relentless onslaught. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dare your kind </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever </span>
  </em>
  <span>again lay hands,” he hissed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl parried a strike and dodged back, giggling. “I was wondering how much damage you could do in that state. Not even a field? What is this poor substitute? Oh, poor Suetekh. Shall I spare you now? Or shall I let you watch your sweet lover’s fate?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seth lunged again. The Tapestry stirred near Cleo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He braced himself to defend, but Seth must have felt it too. Seth pivoted mid-step, conjuring a ring of protective runes around Cleo—but that was a mistake. Cleo was never the target. Cleo watched in horror as dense shadows emerged from behind Seth—the digits of a massive, demonic hand. Before Seth could react, that hand grasped his prone body. Cleo reached forward and screamed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The fist clenched. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Seth had squeezed Lingfei’s heart to a pulp, so too did the hand mean to destroy him. Seth opened his mouth in a roar of pain—and a moment later, all that was left was the echo. The mist of his form dispersed into nothingness. A closed fist faded away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo stared at the empty space, a silenced cry on his trembling lips. It was just a shadow. He knew it was just a shadow. But his heart tore like it was real, and his chest ached from the echo of that roar. His vision blurred as those sneakers stepped forward. Hopelessness threatened to smother him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Jules. His brother was waiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked away the tears and looked up. He met the warlock with a cold, hard gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She chuckled. “Aren’t you just precious? You make me want to just, </span>
  <em>
    <span>umph</span>
  </em>
  <span>, just eat you right up. Sadly, the time isn’t ripe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are you here?” said Cleo, buying time. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It isn’t obvious yet?” She kneeled in front of Cleo and lifted his chin with a finger. She was close enough that he could smell the sugar on her breath. “It’s for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>, of course. The old god of Egypt. Such a difficult thing to find when he wants his privacy.” She slid her touch up his cheek, cupped his face. Cleo turned away in disgust. She trailed the back of her fingers along his throat instead. “If we take you now, he’ll turn over continents to find you. But, of course, he would come in his vessel, and then with the trouble he’d cause, we might have to kill him. Wouldn’t that just be a waste of a perfectly good reserve of power? So, my lovely lover, we’re being clever this time. We’re going to give him no other choice but to submit.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You want his power,” whispered Cleo. He lifted his head and searched her face. Recalled her words with Seth. Yisroel’s words—Tiamat. The pieces clicked. “You want to absorb him. Like a horror.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled and reached for his lips. He drew back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So pretty,” she murmured. “Maybe I should leave a scar…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo gasped in pain as pressure squeezed his body. It was the demonic shadow hand, emerged from the air—smaller than before, fitted to Cleo’s size. But it moved with the motions of the warlock’s hand, the index finger hooking around his throat, the thumb stroking his ribs. He endured it for a short moment, then summoned his magic and teleported away. He stumbled to his feet near the hallway bend—but just before he made the turn, another obstructing veil appeared. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Slow down, lovely. We’re not done playing yet.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo pivoted, racing through ideas. Meanwhile, the veil began to slowly grow, enshrouding him in what would soon be an enclosed space. He still had time to escape it—but that time was an illusion. The warlock could summon the veil as quickly as he could move. So, then, he would have to fight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he tensed for battle, just before the veil enclosed them, the outer wall shattered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The warlock looked over in surprise. So did Cleo, turning at motion in his peripheral. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Snow fell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or at least Cleo believed so at first glance. But it was a concentrated density of flakes, which quickly crafted the form of a man. An albino man in a modern brown suit, a young man around Cleo’s age. He lifted his violet eyes this way, taking in Cleo and the warlock girl behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” said the girl, “it looks like playtime is over.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The albino man began walking over. He stopped in front of Cleo and met him with a flat gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re in my way,” he said in a quiet, toneless voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo blinked. Not knowing how to react, he stumbled aside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” said the man. “You’re still in my way.” He lifted a white hand and pointed at the broken wall, the exposed outside. “Scram.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The girl chuckled. “Ever so faithful to your epithet, aren’t you, Reyes?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo had heard that name before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Solomon Reyes. The Emperor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not wasting another second, Cleo ran down the hall, toward the now-exposed bend. A sigh sounded behind him, followed by an explosive force of Tapestral magic—but no one chased. He ran until he reached the stairwell, and then he kept running up. In seconds, he reached the fourth floor, south side. He nearly tripped over the body at the top of the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not the only one. Bodies littered the corridor. Not many—few wardens apart from the residing apprentices were in the House at this hour. But where the second floor halls had been mostly clear, the fourth floor had at least a dozen murdered men and women strewn about. The walls were marked, cracked, and scorched. Yet aside from the rumbling coming from below, it was quiet here. Not a whisper. Not a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cleo hurried to the medical wing on the north side, praying that Jules would have gone unnoticed. But when he saw that the door to the medical wing was open, his heart plummeted and his skull iced over. He kept pushing forward—came across Kiyoshi’s corpse, and then, Kiyoshi’s assistant. Bile filled his throat. Flashbacks of Quannan. Disassociating, he stumbled toward the clinic room where his brother was supposed to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door was shut. He dared hope. He pushed through—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Empty bed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Empty room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All that had been left was—a faint Tapestral stir by the doorway to the adjacent private toilet. Cleo lifted his numb gaze and saw fading rune marks. The pieces clicked—a portal. Temporary, drawn while they isolated outsiders. An escape route. He rushed over and pulled open the door, only to see the toilet. He stumbled back and cried out in devastation, his thoughts scattering. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They had taken his brother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sank to his knees and clutched his head, and having reached his limits, he sobbed hysterically. His phone rang and he did not register it. The building rumbled and he did not move. The world condensed into a horrific blur, and all he felt was the crushing weight of his own helplessness.    </span>
</p>
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